IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS INTERCEPTED AT MANASSAS, WHICH ESTABLISHED THE FACT
THAT THE REBEL ARMY HAD NO INTENTION, AND WERE NOT ABLE TO ADVANCE AFTER
MANASSAS--THE REBEL ARMY DEMORALIZED BY SUCCESS, AND TWENTY-FIVE PER
CENT. ABSENT FROM EPIDEMIC--ON THE FIELD AFTER THE BATTLE--OBSERVATION
INSIDE REBEL CAMPS--TALKING WITH RICHMOND BY WIRE--CAPTURED BY REBEL
PICKET IN SIGHT OF THE SIGNAL LIGHTS AT GEORGETOWN COLLEGE.
I was always particularly careful to conceal from every one with whom I
was in contact when scouting that I was an expert telegrapher. As such I
was able, without any apparent effort at listening on my part, or in any
way indicating by my manner that I was paying any attention to the
monotonous clicking of the instruments, to interpret every word or
signal that they gave out.
I had studied this part carefully, realizing fully that upon my
successful concealment of this accomplishment everything depended.
I now found myself--through a train of events that seemed almost
providential--in exactly the position inside the Rebel armies from which
I could best accomplish the objects that I had set out to undertake when
I first presented the Secretary's letter to General Patterson and
General Porter.
I might have been there before the battle, if Fitz-John Porter had not
delayed me. A few days after, I was at the old shanty of a railroad
depot from which the trains and telegraph communication were had with
Richmond, Gordonsville, and the Valley; the armies of Generals
Beauregard and Johnston were encamped some distance in advance of this
point, but my situation was exactly suited to my purpose, which was to
intercept communication over the wire to and from Richmond between the
Rebel Government and their Generals in the field. I might learn more by
sitting still or loafing around listlessly in one day at that point than
could be accomplished by a week's tramp through every camp of the Rebel
Army.
When I reached the railway station, in charge of one of General
Beauregard's orderlies, it was quite dark. The gentlemanly Rebel
soldier, at the direction of the staff officer, escorted me thither from
headquarters, politely presented me to the agent or officer in charge,
as a "Maryland refugee, whom General Beauregard had sent to him to make
use of until such time as he could join with some other Marylanders, who
were to come in soon." I was also further recommended as having been
connected with railroads in the North, and, continuing, he said:
"Mr. Wilmore" (I had assumed my mother's maiden name) "is willing to
undertake any work you may have for him."
"Yes," I spoke up; "I shall be obliged for any employment that will
enable me to even earn my rations until I can meet with some friends,
whom I expect."
I was cordially received and hospitably entertained as one of the exiled
refugees from "Maryland, my Maryland;" in fact, I became somewhat
embarrassed by the generous attentions that the attaches about the place
were disposed to give me, on account of my being a youthful exile from
home.
The station-house was an old frame structure, such as one sees on
second-class railways in a new country. One portion was assigned to the
offices, in which were crowded together the ticket-sellers, the agent,
clerks, and the three telegraph operators. There had not, of course,
entered into the plans of the builder of the road and station-houses any
calculations for the increased facilities demanded by the presence of a
large army at that point, and, necessarily, everything was exceedingly
cramped and crowded, which uncomfortable fact served all the better for
my purposes.
There was a squad of Rebel soldiers detailed at the depot for the
protection of property and to guard the employes. The measly old shanty
was more correctly termed a "depot" than are some of those elegant
railroad structures which have recently been erected over the country,
which, properly speaking, are "stations," even if located at a city
terminus--a depot being correctly defined as a storehouse, or base of
supplies for an army.
This depot, like all the country stations, had a broad platform around
two sides of it. At the rear of the office portion was a window looking
out on this platform. Inside of the office, against the wall,
immediately under this window, was an old deal table or shelf, on which
was placed two complete sets of Morse instruments, while scattered about
over this desk in a telegraphic style was a lot of paper neatly done up
in clips, an old inkstand, half a dozen pens, short pieces of lead
pencils, while behind the instruments a meerschaum pipe nestled in a
cigar box half filled with tobacco. There were a couple of glass
insulators for paper weights, and an immense six-inch glass jar, or
battery cup, which the operators used for a drinking cup.
The fact that this cup had recently composed part of his battery and
contained a strong solution of nitric acid, did not, that I ever
noticed, deter the thirsty telegrapher from taking a long swig out of it
after "Jimmy," the little messenger, should bring it in full of water
fresh from the spring.
The wires, covered with woven thread, were leading down the sides of the
window, under the table, where they were taken up in an inexplicable
net, and drawn through gimlet holes in the desk, and curled into their
proper place in the instruments.
One of these instruments communicated with all the railroad stations on
toward Gordonsville and the valley; the other was the direct line of
communication with Richmond, and as this machine did most of the
business, its voice, or tone, was permitted to sound the loudest, and
partially drowned the other; but if an operator's educated ear detected
the signal for attention from the railroad instrument, he could, by a
mere twitch of the finger, accord it the prominent place, until its
wants were attended to.
All the telegraph operators engaged there were clever gentlemen, who
were, of course, as full of the Southern enthusiasm as were their
soldiers, and to the end gave to their cause that zeal and devotion,
protecting, as far as lay in their power, the important secrets and
confidences which necessarily passed through their hands, without a
single instance of betrayal of the trust.
Like the telegraph corps of the Union army, they served without rank,
and for small pay, and no hope of achieving for themselves any of the
glory of war. To-day the army telegraphers are not even accorded the
privilege granted enlisted men and teamsters. Their names are,
unfortunately, not enrolled among those of the "Grand Army."
Of course, I cultivated the friendship of the boys; I flattered myself
that I knew some of their vulnerable points and was able to approach
them in the proper way.
What operator has not been "made sick" by the stereotyped observation of
visitors, who so often observe, with a superior air, perhaps, while he
is showing his girl the telegraph office for the first time, while
questioning the courteous and long-suffering operator as to the never
ending "curiosities of the telegraph?"
"I once began to learn to telegraph, and knew the alphabet, and could
write ever so many words, but I gave it up."
Too bad they all give it up. I've heard the remark in my time on an
average of about once a week for twenty-five years, from educated men,
too, and have been just that often made sick at the stomach. Any school
boy can learn the alphabet from his book on philosophy; so he can learn
the alphabet of the Greek, but it requires close application for months
to make a mere "operator," and it usually takes years to make a
telegrapher, while those who have studied the art and science of
electricity longest say they know the least of its wonderful
possibilities.
The very first act on my part was to question in this way the operator
who was on duty the next morning. I had proposed to the station-master
to sweep out for him, and endeavored, in a general way, to make myself a
man of all work about the place, so that I might be allowed to remain
there instead of being put on the road as a brakeman.
With a broom in my hand, I observed to the operator, who was at that
moment leaning over and peering under his desk cleaning his local
battery, or rather bossing an old negro who was down on his knees trying
to do this work for him: "I came near being an operator once."
I had not time to say that I had learned the alphabet when the young man
straightened himself up and pleasantly observed: "The _hell_ you did."
I turned my back and began sweeping vigorously, and, if the young man
had seen my face, it would have shown a suppressed laugh instead of
anger.
That remark fixed him. I know that he for one would never suspect me of
being an operator. As the old colored uncle was not doing his work
properly at the local, I volunteered to help; and, taking hold of the
wires, I handled them in a clumsy way that was amusing to myself, and,
under his direction, for my willingness to aid, I was told that I should
have the nasty job of cleaning battery every day after that.
The first day passed without anything of especial interest occurring
until about sundown, when a message which I had not heard was received
for "headquarters."
It was the duty of one of the mounted orderlies to deliver all messages,
but at that time there did not happen to be any orderly about, and,
noting their hunt for one, I volunteered to perform the duty and on
foot. My services were accepted without question, and I became the
bearer of a dispatch to the Rebel headquarters.
The operator placed in my hands an enveloped message for an officer
whose name I have forgotten, but it was addressed to the "Headquarters
of the Army," remarking, as he carelessly handed it to me: "It's an
important message from Richmond and must be answered right away, or I
should let it lie over until one of those orderlies got back, because
it's an awful long walk from here."
Anxious to get the important paper in my hands, I did not think or care
for that at all, and told him with an earnestness that I could hardly
suppress that I'd rather walk a little than lay around there idle so
much, especially as I hoped by getting out to be able to meet some of my
Maryland friends in the camps. They all looked upon my proposal as being
prompted by my zeal or my "willingness" to be of any service possible to
the cause generally and the telegraph people personally.
The Rebel armies had been advanced somewhat during the few days. We all
know how difficult it is to find a certain regiment or brigade which we
had left perhaps in a snug camp in a well-known location only the day
previous, rigged up and beautifully laid out and decorated as if they
intended to make it a winter quarters, but had been suddenly ordered
during the night, perhaps, to some distant point on a picket detail or
wagon guard. These sudden changes in the camps and of the headquarters
to a straggling cavalryman or infantryman seem to alter the entire
topography of the country in one day, and is very confusing to anyone.
I concluded, however, to take the general course which had been
indicated, and to depend on further inquiries as I went along.
With this important dispatch in my pocket, my curiosity burning with an
intense desire to learn its contents, I started off briskly, determining
in my usual reckless manner that, if it should turn out to be important,
that I'd deliver it to _our_ headquarters, instead of to the Rebel's,
that night. It did not in those days occur to me very often that there
might be obstacles in my path. I presume that I felt if there were that,
as a matter of course, I should be able to overcome or crush any
attempted interference with my plans.
I had not gone far when I was startled out of my reverie by a "helloa,"
from the rear. Looking around in a frightened way, as if I had been
detected in the very act of opening the envelope, as the subject was in
my mind, I saw trotting up after me a neatly-dressed soldier on
horseback, whom I recognized on a closer approach as one of the
orderlies detailed for duty at the railroad station.
His laughing question assured me that I was not to be arrested, and,
recovering myself, I was able to receive him calmly and pleasantly, as
he said:
"I got back shortly after you had left, and they sent me out to relieve
you. I'll take that dispatch out; why, it's five miles almost; we're much
obliged to you, though."
I rather reluctantly handed over the envelope, which, perhaps luckily
for me, had not been tampered with; the natty orderly slipped it under
his belt and, after a few more pleasant words, rode off.
In a disappointed mood I retraced my steps to the telegraph station,
walking along at a much more leisurely gait than when starting out. I
had the leisure to think over my future operation, and before I had
returned to the office, had about resolved in my own mind that there was
not any use in longer staying about there. But, remembering my
experience at Fort Pickens and in Patterson's army in getting into our
own lines from that of the enemy, my mission in both cases being
misunderstood and my object mistrusted by our own officers, because I
had only my own word to support my reports, I fully determined that,
without regard to the risk of carrying papers, I should not again return
to our lines without taking with me some documentary or other proof to
sustain my observations. I had thought, while in possession of the
official dispatch, what a pleasant gratification it would be to my old
friend Covode to be able to show him an intercepted dispatch from
Richmond to the commander of the Rebel armies in the field; and as the
thought of this performance dwelt in my brain as I walked along, I
formed a hasty plan, which I believed I could mature and carry into
effect--of securing from the files or papers in the telegraph office a
number of copies of the most important dispatches, either in the
handwriting of Generals Joseph E. Johnston or Beauregard, addressed to
Richmond, or at least signed by them officially.
At the particular time during which I was at this point, it seemed to me
that the burden of the wires was the messages of inquiry for the sick
and wounded, mixed up with florid dispatches of congratulation, coupled
almost always with expressions of the great possibilities of the South.
There were but few official messages of any importance that I was able
to hear; those carried to and fro by the orderlies, and to which I gave
my personal attention in a quiet way, would turn out to be generally
some Quartermaster's or Commissaries' orders or requisitions, and I
became nervous and tired over the strain or tension I had been obliged
to maintain in order to overhear the instruments in the midst of the
confusion always existing about the place.
As the telegraph table was jammed up tightly against the board wall of
the house, under the window, it became my favorite place for loafing
when outside of the office. I could sit on the board platform and, with
my back against the boards under the window distinctly hear every word
that went over the wires, the thin partition between my head and the
inside answered as a sounding-board, really helping to convey the
signals by vibration.
If the reader is anxious to try an experiment, let him place an ear
against even a thick wall and allow some person with a penknife handle
to tap or knock ever so softly, but quickly and sharply, in imitation of
a telegraph instrument's click, and you will be astonished at the
distinctness with which the wall will carry the sound like a telegraph
wire.
There was always about the place a lot of idle loafers--Rebel soldiers
off duty, who naturally gravitated toward the railroad stations, where
the little stores or sutlers were usually to be found, dealing out
commissary whisky and tobacco.
Every day, and for every train, there would be crowds of sickly-looking
soldiers at the station in care of friends, who were taking them to the
trains for their homes. Dear me! I recall it as if it were but
yesterday, how the hundreds of poor fellows looked as they were helped
aboard the crowded cars by their poor old fathers, or perhaps younger
brothers. I always associate in my mind a sick Rebel, with his big eyes
and sallow face, with a resemblance to a crazy tramp one sees sometimes
nowadays, injured while stealing a ride on a freight train, gazing at
everything in a stupid sort of way, clothed in a pair of butternut pants
and coat, and big gray blanket over his shoulders even in that August
sun. I saw lots of them go away from Manassas that I felt sure would
never return to trouble us. They were not all sick, not by any means;
some of the chaps that gathered about our place were about as lively and
fractious as one meets at an Irish picnic.
One evening while sitting in my favorite place under the window,
apparently dozing, but wide enough wake to take in every sound of the
instrument which I knew emanated from the fingers of the operator at
Richmond, my quick ear caught a message addressed to a prominent
official. As it was being spelled out rapidly, promising something rich
in the way of news development, I was eagerly straining every nerve and
sense to catch every word of it. The instrument had ticked out the name
and address, which had first attracted my attention, and I had read--"We
have information from Washington that Banks--" when some big fellow
among the crowd on the platform, of course not knowing of my intense
earnestness at that moment, began a jig-dance on the board platform; and
as his boots were at least number nine, and he weighed 200 pounds, of
course the vibrations from that source smothered the other sounds. So
intent and eagerly had I fixed myself on catching that message, and was
so absorbed in my purpose, that, when the fellow made his first jump, I
impulsively cried out: "Keep still a minute."
This was a dead "give away," or would have been to any person who had
known anything of the telegraph business and my recent connection with
the place; but, quickly recovering myself, I said, "All right; I thought
the operator was calling me."
He went on with his dancing but I lost the message.
I afterward carelessly walked inside and tried, without exciting any
suspicion, to ascertain what the information about Banks amounted to. I
was not successful at the time, but kept the matter in my mind
constantly during the evening, and the more I thought about it the more
eager I became to know its purport.
I was satisfied fully, from personal observation, that there was no
thought of an advance on Washington. I could see from the number of
leaves of absence, and the great crowds of soldiers leaving by every
train, that no forward movement was then contemplated. Besides this, I
had heard on the wire message after message of an official character
from quartermasters, commissaries and others interested in the movement
of an army, of sufficient character to satisfy me of any projected
advance. I decided to go to Washington and report thus much.
It had been arranged that, as Beauregard (or Johnston) had advanced his
line to near Fairfax Court House, the telegraph office would be moved
the next day, so as to be more convenient.
Late in the night, when the only one on duty in the office was the
operator with a guard or sentry outside, I lay on the floor of the
office affecting sound sleep, but wide-awake. Knowing that it was the
last opportunity to get hold of any papers, I became anxious and almost
desperate. A long message had been sent to "S. Cooper, Adjutant-General,
Richmond," giving a full and detailed account of an epidemic that had
apparently broken out in the army. The dispatch was important I knew,
from the fact of its being addressed to S. Cooper, who I knew was
Adjutant-General for Jeff Davis, and was, I think, signed by Dr.
Cartright. It was quite long; the only part of it which I distinctly
remember was the astonishing statement that twenty-five per cent., or
one-fourth, of the Rebel Army were sick or unable to do any active duty
on account of this epidemic of dysentery or diarrhoea. This was an
important admission in an official form, and I decided that it was the
message in writing that I must carry with me to Washington. I observed
carefully where the operator placed the original copy after it had been
sent.
It was his duty to have remained there all night, prepared to receive or
send communications that might chance to come, but we all know how
soundly the night-owls can sleep while on duty, and I knew, or hoped,
that this young fellow would soon take his chance and drop asleep, when
I could abstract that Cooper message from his files.
I did not have to wait for him to sleep; he did better than that for me;
he went out of the office and left me inside alone, and I, moving
vigorously, with one eye watched his every movement; he further favored
me by turning all his lights down before leaving. I inferred that his
purpose (as all was quiet on the wire) was to go to his bunk and take a
regular sleep like a Christian and a white man, and not like a common
soldier. I heard his footsteps on the long platform grow fainter and
further off, and then the sound disappeared as he jumped onto solid
ground. Now was my chance to get that message.
Realizing that it might be my only opportunity, I quickly determined to
take the risk of his returning soon and, perchance, missing the message
from his file--it being conspicuous because of its bulky appearance. I
silently stole up to the desk and slipped the big piece of paper from
his hook and put it--not in my pocket, not by a good deal--but I
carelessly laid it "aside," where I would be able to reach it, and where
the operator could find it if he should return and take a notion to hunt
it up.
Pleased with my success, and emboldened by the continued absence of the
operator, I thought of looking further for a copy of the message about
"Banks" that I had heard come over the wires that afternoon, but
abandoned it, remembering that, as it was a received message from
Richmond, that probably there was no copy of it retained in the office
and the original had been delivered.
Everything seemed to become oppressively as still and quiet as death
outside--the office was dark; the instrument only ticked an occasional
"call" from "Rd;" but as the operator was not there to answer the "call"
the "Rd" operator no doubt thought him asleep, and with that feeling of
fraternity and consideration for which the craft are noted, the man at
"Rd" undoubtedly turned in himself. It's probable the feeble call was
merely a desire to assure himself that the man at the other end was
drowsy and ready to go to sleep. I understood all their little tricks.
I had been there myself often, and, as I lay on that floor, I fully
sympathized with the boys.
Feeling that it was to be almost my last hour in the telegraph service
of the Rebels at Manassas, I became bold and reckless enough at my
success, and the hope of getting away soon, to undertake a very foolish
piece of business.
In the darkness, which comes just before daylight (when I should leave),
I learned the Cooper message. At the same moment, almost involuntarily,
I placed my hand on the "key" of the telegraph instrument and softly
called, "Rd-Rd-Rd," several times; there was no answer to my first
feeble call. The operator was probably asleep. I was turning away,
abandoning the attempt, when I was thrilled through and through by the
click of the instrument answering in a slow, sleepy way, "I-I-I," which
is the affirmative signal in answer to a call for attention to receive a
message. Glaring about wildly in the darkness in search of the voice of
the Rebel spectre I had aroused, and who was speaking to me from
Richmond, I took hold of the key and said, in nervous haste and
desperation:
"What was that message you sent about Banks?"
There was a moment's silence. "Rd" did not seem to comprehend, and made
the telegraphic signal for interrogation (?) or repeat. I said more
deliberately:
"That message about Banks--is there anything important?"
"Oh, yes; why, you sent the answer to that."
"I forgot it."
"Yes," he answered; that "a Confederate Company could take care of
Banks."
"O. K., O. K."
I had just laid down when footsteps were heard advancing toward the
office door, and, in another moment, to my great relief, not the
operator, but the colored servant or porter, tumbled in for an hour's
sleep before it was time to sweep and clean up the office preparatory to
the coming day's work. There was no more sleep for me. I was wide-awake
to the importance of getting away from there as soon as possible. With
the intent of throwing everybody off their guard, or to avoid any
suspicion that might possibly attach to my sudden departure, I had made
up, and had been careful to tell all the listeners I could get the day
previous, that I was going out to Fairfax C. H. to find some friends
whom I had understood were in camp there, and I might be away all day
and night. Also, that I was tired of civil life about the railroad and
anxious to enter the army, and would do so if I found my friends.
I knew that the operator who had been on duty, or supposed to have been
on duty that night, would be relieved by the regular day man in the
morning, so, of course, the man coming on duty would not be likely to
know anything about the night messages, or to miss any messages that he
himself had not sent. I therefore took the last opportunity to collect
from the files of the office several interesting "documents," which I
knew would be valuable souvenirs to show my friends when I should get
back to Washington.
Early in the morning I secured a note from the Superintendent requesting
a pass through the army for myself, to enable me to look up a friend.
With a few further words of good-by to one or two companions, with whom
I had been so singularly associated for a few days, I left the place,
with the expectation of being able to reach Washington the same night.
The distance was but twenty miles, I think, to Alexandria. My plan was,
during the daytime to travel openly under protection of my pass, in a
course leading to the front. From the best outlook that I could reach, I
hoped to place myself convenient to some unguarded point, through which
I could escape from the Rebels, and in safety reach our own lines under
cover of the darkness. It was not a particularly dangerous undertaking
at that time, because the Rebels--officers and soldiers--whatever may be
said to the contrary, were demoralized, and had become quite careless
and almost indifferent to their surroundings.
I was now going into the very heart of the Rebel army. I think that I
saw all that was to be seen in a day's scout. They had, what I thought
at the time, an awful lot of cannon; and cavalrymen in bright gray
uniforms were flying about everywhere, mounted on their own fine horses,
and stirring up a dust in such a way as to impress me with the idea that
the woods were full of horsemen. The infantry camps were, for the most
part, pleasantly located; in fact, everything looked brighter from the
midst of the army than it had from its rear; but there was everywhere
present--along the roads, or in the yards of convenient houses--the
same groups of sick-looking soldiers and officers, who were probably
awaiting their turn to get home to die.
There were numerous fortifications, earthworks and masked batteries to
be seen, and when I got on to the battlefield of Bull Run what a
disgusting smell filled the air; the very atmosphere seemed to be thick
and heavy with the odor of half-buried and half-burned horses and mules,
the bones of which were to be seen in many places covered with carrion
crows, which would fly off making their ugly noises as they hovered
about in a way to make the heart sick. You all know how we used to
"bury" the dead artillery and cavalry horses, by simply piling a few
fence-rails over the bodies and then setting fire to the pile, and then
ride off and leave the coals of the fire baking the carcass. Whew! the
smell of those half-burned old horses sticks in my nostrils even after
twenty-five years.
I have not much to say of the many poor fellows whose toes were to be
seen above ground; and now and then a piece of blue cloth showed through
the thin covering of earth, and one hand laid above the grave, from
which the fingers had been actually rotted or eaten off. It's an ugly
subject to write or think about now, and I dismiss it from my mind with
the same feeling of disgust and sickness that I experienced that day I
walked along the fields and fences in August, 1861. Under the pretence
of looking for a sick comrade, whom I pretended might have died at one
of the hospitals or private houses in that direction, I moved about
unmolested. There were plenty of civilian visitors beside myself, who
were readily granted the privilege of going over the battlefield; their
army friends were glad of an opportunity to escort them, so it was not
thought at all out of the way for me to be prowling about there alone in
search of a sick or perhaps a dead friend. In this way I got beyond the
battlefield without any trouble, and along the railroad toward the
station from which a road leads up to Fairfax Court House. Here I began
to encounter some difficulties in the way of guards and sentries which
were placed about the railroad bridges and at the cross-roads. Their
purpose was, as a general thing, I imagined, to prevent their own
soldiers from roaming or straggling about too much.
I knew that the railroad track would lead me in the most direct route to
Alexandria, and soon to our army on that line; but I understood, also,
that it would be more carefully patrolled and guarded than were the
country roads; and for this reason I preferred the woods in which to
make my final dash for liberty, and the Union, and home.
The critical moments in a scout's experience come just at this
point--after successfully passing beyond one line and _before_ reaching
the other; then occurs the time when capture means his sure detection,
either as a deserter or a spy, with its terrible punishment; and it is
extremely difficult to tell from appearances whether those you meet or
see are the friends you hope to find or the enemies you desire to leave
behind.
I had traveled openly and boldly all day through the Rebel Army,
carrying inside the lining of my cap the official papers I wished to get
through. I had placed them in my hat because I calculated that, in case
of a pursuit and probable capture, I might be able accidentally to
"lose" the hat in a way that would not attract any particular attention,
and a search of the regulation place for a spy to carry papers--in the
shoes--would reveal nothing to implicate me. Night and darkness was
rapidly coming on, yet I continued boldly to advance right along to the
front, and, in the gloaming, I reached a little house setting back from
the road, where I applied for supper and lodging. There were several
soldiers about the yard, and officers were inside the house, as I judged
from seeing their horses tied in the barnyard. An old bushwhacking
proprietor, to whom I addressed myself, said that he couldn't keep me,
as these officers had engaged the only accommodations he had. Turning to
the officers I explained in a plausible manner that I had been hunting
all day for a sick comrade, who had been left at a private house; that I
was unable to find him--his name and regiment I was then able to
furnish, knowing very well from their distance back, where I had located
them, these men would not detect me--and as I was too tired and sick to
go back that night, I must rest till morning, and so I would take a bed
in the barn. I showed my request for a pass, across the face of which I
had carefully endorsed in bold handwriting, in red ink, before leaving
the office, the official words, "Approved, R. Chisholm, A. D. C."
That was a clear case of forgery, but "All's fair in love or war," and
"desperate cases require desperate remedies."
The officers were of that kind who are easily impressed by an
endorsement, especially if it is written across the face of the papers
in red ink; and without any further question I was invited to sit down
while a warm supper was being prepared for them.
I gathered from their conversation that the Rebel outposts were still
some distance beyond. Though their own regiment was on this picket duty,
their presence in the house was explained by the sickness of the younger
of the two officers, the older having brought him in off the
picket-line. There were also in addition to this line of pickets, a
cavalry detachment that were supposed to be constantly moving up and
down the roads in front of or between the two armies. So I was still a
long way from our lines, and had yet some serious obstacles to overcome.
It wasn't exactly a pleasant evening for me, although I was so near home
again. I lay there in that hay-loft or horse-shed, planning for the last
dash for liberty; I knew that I must not attempt to move out of the barn
until everybody was sound asleep; I had also some fear of a couple of
dogs, that I'd seen running about the house rousing the folks when I
should stir; I realized that I had a serious night's tramp ahead of me;
my path must necessarily lead me over the fields and through the woods
in tiresome detours that would be necessary in avoiding the road. For
this reason I was anxious to make an early start from the barn; and just
as soon as everything became quiet I silently groped my way out of the
loft and slid myself down on the manure pile; crouched a moment to
nervously listen and learn if the way was clear, and not hearing a sound
of life, I started off cautiously on the last quarter-stretch of my
night run for "liberty or death."
Keeping to the fields and woods, but in sight of the fence along the
road as a guide, for some distance without meeting anyone or the hearing
of a sound except the crickets and frogs, I became more emboldened and
climbed over the fence into the road, striking out at a lively gait down
a long hill. At the bottom of this hill, or rather in the valley between
two hills, flowed a little stream which was spanned by one of those
old-fashioned stone bridges. When I came close I discovered that a
sentry was standing on it. I thought it was a picket; I could discern a
moving object that looked to me through the darkness sufficiently like a
soldier and his gun, to cause me to get back over the fence and make
rapid tracks through the field to his flank. Almost exhausted, I found
myself on the bank of the same little stream at a point where there was
neither bridge or pickets.
I had learned enough about the military way of doing things to
understand that, topographically, this little stream of water probably
represented the Rebel picket-line, and I surmised that if I were able
successfully to pass this point, that I should meet with no further
danger from the infantry, and that cavalry could easily be avoided by
keeping away from the roads, as I could travel over the routes where the
horses could not be used.
I waded right in fearlessly; there was but little water running, but, oh
dear! there was lots of mud concealed under the little bit of water, and
when I pulled out, on the other side, I had gained several pounds in
weight which had to be carried along up the next hill by a pair of legs
already nearly exhausted. I got over that hill and passed down into
another valley, and had, as before, become so emboldened by not meeting
with anything in my path to relieve myself of the extra labor of
climbing fences and crawling over logs, as well as scratching through
briar bushes and tramping ploughed fields, I again took to the road.
All that day and most of the night I had now been going steadily in one
direction, as I believed toward our lines, which I had figured could not
be more than twenty miles distant from my starting point in the morning.
Feeling that I could not be far from rest and glorious relief from the
dreadful strain or suspense in which I had placed myself since leaving
the barn, I recklessly pushed along the open road. Up to that point I
could have retreated and saved myself, but now that I had gotten outside
of the lines, no explanation would answer, if I were captured.
I was so fully satisfied that I was outside the Rebel lines and became
so exhilarated with the feeling that came over me upon the thought that
the next soldier I should meet would be our own boys in blue, that I
started up the hill at a brisk dog-trot, feeling almost as fresh as when
starting out in the morning.
This road was through a strip of dense pine woods. You all know how
dismally dark the path seems which leads through a deep and dark, lonely
wood on a cloudy night. I felt, as I forged along, like the ostrich
with her head in the sand, that, as "I could see nobody, nobody could
see me," and was feeling comfortable enough, notwithstanding the dreary
loneliness of the time and place, to have whistled Yankee Doodle, even
although I was not out of the woods.
I wasn't afraid of the Black-Horse Cavalry in that darkness and gloom,
because I knew very well that afoot I could easily hear the approach of
horses along the road in time to get out of the way by running to the
adjacent dark woods. In my mind I planned my forthcoming interview with
the surprised officers of our army, whom I would soon meet face to face.
It's a rule or law that scouts or spies must report direct to the
General commanding, and not talk to anyone else. I was going to do
better than this, and report to the President and Secretary of War, and
show the evidence that I carried--that there were twenty-five per cent.
of the Rebel Army sick with this epidemic, while probably another
twenty-five per cent. were absent on sick leave or straggling, and no
advance was possible, while an attack by Banks on their rear would
demoralize them all badly.
"Halt!"
That's the word I heard come from the darkness and interrupted my plans,
which shot through me as if it were uttered by a ghost or spirit from
another world, and put me in a tremor of dismay. The voice came from the
side of the road, and _from behind_. I was so taken by surprise that I
could not at the instant see the object that spoke like a deathknell
this dreadful word.
In another instant a _soldier in a blue uniform_ appeared, pointing his
gun at me, as he said "Stand there!" Then calling to a comrade, who had
evidently been asleep, as he did not immediately answer, I recovered my
voice sufficiently to say to the soldier in the blue blouse:
"You scared me half to death, until I saw your uniform."
He replied to my observation:
"Yes; where did you come from?"
I had not yet seen his face distinctly, but his voice and dialect at
once aroused my doubts, and again put me on my guard, and I said:
"I'll tell you all about it when your officer comes," and I braced for a
run.
In another moment the rattling of a saber was heard, coming from the
direction of the woods, and, peering through the darkness into the
grove, I was able to distinguish the outlines of a house.
When the officer with his rattling scabbard got up to us I was almost
paralyzed to see him dressed in the grey uniform of a Confederate
cavalry officer. Addressing me courteously, he said:
"What in the name of all that's good brings you out on this road on such
a dark night, disturbing our sleep?"
He laughed, as if he thought it a good joke on himself; it was only a
trifling little laugh, but it gave me some encouragement.
"Why, I have been hunting the house where a sick friend of mine was left
after the battle, and, being unable to find him, I went to sleep in a
barn, but I couldn't stand that sort of a rest, so I got out and started
back home, and I _guess_ I'm lost."
"I _guess_ you are."
The use of this word nearly gave me away.
"What regiment was your friend in?"
"I don't know for sure, but think it's a Maryland company. I knew him in
Texas, but we were both from Maryland, and maybe he went with some Texas
acquaintances."
"Well, my friend, this is rather a singular place and time to be found
hunting a sick friend."
"Yes, I know; but, as I tell you, I am lost in the darkness, and must
have taken the wrong road when I left the barn. I will show you my
passes."
"Oh, you have passes, have you? Come into the house and we will make a
light; we can't make a light out here because we are right on the line."
As we turned to leave, the sentry or guard who had halted me whispered
or spoke in a low tone to the officer. I suspected that he was telling
him that I had expressed my relief at seeing his blue uniform. The
officer merely nodded assent, as he invited me to walk alongside of him
into the house.
I took occasion to say to him that when I saw the blue coat I was sure
that I had been caught by a Yankee soldier, and expressed my great
pleasure at having met such courteous Southern gentlemen.
"Well, you came very near going into the Yankees' hands; why their
cavalry come out here every day, and were away inside of this point
to-day, but they generally go back at night, and we come out to spend
the night on the road."
Then stopping in his walk he turned and, after peering through the
trees, he pointed to a couple of dimly flickering lights and said:
"Those lights are in Georgetown College."
Great God! I was so near and yet so far; and as I looked at the lights I
was almost overcome with emotion to think that I had so nearly succeeded
and was now a prisoner in the sight of home and friends; that I had, in
fact, passed the last picket and had been halted from the rear, but
realizing that I must, under the trying circumstances, keep a stiff
upper lip, I might yet get free.
My surprise at hearing the lights pointed out as Georgetown College was
so great that I must have expressed in some way my feelings, as the
officer looked at me quizzically. I ventured to express myself in some
way about being so near the Yankees, as I thought I was nearer Fairfax,
in a manner which probably implied a doubt as to the lights being so
close at Georgetown, when he spoke up:
"I know they are, because, you see, I was a demonstrator of anatomy and
a tutor at that college, and we all know about it." And as a further
proof of his assertion he incidentally observed: "If you are around this
country in daylight you can see the Capitol from some elevated points."
In the silence and gloom that had settled down over me, like a cold,
heavy, wet blanket, we walked together to the house.
Along the fence and hitched to the posts were several horses, already
saddled and bridled for sudden use, while in the porch of the house were
stretched in sleep the forms of two or three men in gray uniform, with
their belts and spurs buckled on.
Inside the house a tallow candle was found, and by its dim light, the
Confederate officer scanned my pass, and then, turning, gave me a most
searching look by the light of the candle, as he said: "This pass is all
right for the inside of our lines."
"Oh," said I quickly, "I don't want any pass anywhere else. I'm glad
that I found you here, or I'd have gone into the Yankees' hands, sure."
While talking to the sentry, when waiting for the officer to come up to
us, I had not thought it necessary to attempt to destroy or "lose" the
papers in my old hat, as I supposed him to be the Union picket; and,
since the officer had joined us, there had been no opportunity to do
anything with him, without exciting suspicion, which was the one thing
to be avoided at that time.
When we went into the house I had, of course, taken off my hat, and as I
sat there under the scrutiny of that fellow's black eyes and sharp
cross-examination, I held my hat in my hand, and everytime my fingers
would touch or feel the presence of the paper in the hat I was conscious
of a little flush of guilt and apprehension, which happily the tallow
candle did not expose.
The officer, at my request, hospitably accepted the suggestion that I be
permitted to stay there under their protection until daylight, when I
could return to "our army," supplementing the arrangement by the kind
observation:
"We will see you back safely."
Then rousing one of the sleeping soldiers, whom he called aside and gave
some private directions as to my care and keeping, he courteously told
me to make myself comfortable, and apologized for the accommodations.
I was a prisoner, and I knew full well that to be escorted back through
the Rebel armies with this officer's report that I had been "found at
their outposts going in the direction of the enemy," would excite a
suspicion that would be sure to set on foot a closer examination, and
this would result in my certain detection; because the first thing they
would do would be to show my forged endorsement from General
Beauregard's Chief-of-Staff for his further endorsement; and I could
not, of course, stand an examination into my immediate antecedents, nor
explain my statements, and this would also discover my operations in the
telegraph office.
As I lay down alongside of the armed Rebel trooper for a rest, I
resolved that, come what might, I should not go back a prisoner--that it
would be preferable to be shot trying to escape rather than to be hanged
as a spy.