I was safe for a little while longer, and, without caring what the next
hour would develop, we proceeded to enjoy ourselves as freely as if we
had nothing else to do, and not a fear to trouble us.
How long we remained with Capitola and her one friend is not material.
When we were ready to leave this pleasant society, it was discovered by
some one that it was then too late to get home to camp, unless by
running the gauntlet of the city guard and patrol, who lifted
everybody's pass after a certain hour.
This annoyance was fully compensated for by the sympathy which the
ladies expressed for us. When we were, after a good many failures, at
last ready to say a final "Good-night," all were made happy by pressing
invitations to call again.
I noticed then, and have not forgotten in these twenty-five years, that
the doctor was the last to say "Good-night" to Capitola; that he held
her hand in his while he whispered, as he spoke in a low tone, some
words that we did not hear, which seemed to amuse her immensely, as she
only laughed in reply.
My acquaintance with the city streets and the haunts of the patrol at
night enabled me to steer the party safely up to my old hotel on the
Square, where we engaged one room and two beds. The quartette went to
bed, but not to sleep. The doctor raved like a mad man about his
agreeable evening in my company, and as his talk was altogether on the
subject uppermost in my mind and heart, I enjoyed it as much as he did.
We occupied the same bed, and before sleeping I detailed to him the
whole story of Capitola, Claiborne and myself, without giving myself
away.
I saw there was going to be trouble between the Doctor from Texas and
the Lieutenant from Mississippi, on account of my Maryland girl; just
where _I_ was to appear, or where I was to come out of this affair, did
not concern me so much as the hope that, somehow or other, when these
two would get to quarreling over Capitola, that it would result in
neither of them obtaining her, and the end would come about--like it
should in all good stories--that I would yet march into Richmond some
day in a Federal officer's uniform and claim her by reason of my
devotion, and convince her that I was as plucky as any of the Southern
men, worthy of a Federal officer's uniform, and of her love, etc., etc.
In the morning, after a hasty breakfast at the hotel, I escorted the
boys down to Jeff Davis' office, in hopes that we might get a chance to
see him come down through the square.
We were disappointed in this, as he had gotten in before we arrived. My
companions were interested in having me point out to them some objects
and persons of interest about the Capital, but the day was cold and
dreary, compelling us to separate early.
The Texans were accustomed to the snow and slush of a Virginia winter,
which interfered so much with their enjoyment that day.
I was the least bit uncertain about my status with our old Captain, as I
had overstayed my leave all night, especially as I knew that Claiborne
would be sure to let him know that I was in the city that night.
With the return of blue Monday morning, while out of sight of Capitola
and away from the Texas boys, my small supply of common sense began to
assert itself, and I saw that I was not only standing on a scaffold but
the rope was about my neck. That something must be done at once was
evident to the dullest sense. While pondering over what must be done,
what might be the best course to pursue, having made up my mind not to
return to the company at all, but to add desertion of the Rebel cause to
the probable charges and specifications against me, by making a
desperate effort to get North that night, I was hailed on the street by
the Captain himself, who inquired rather savagely:
"Where in hell have you been?"
He interrupted my explanations abruptly by saying:
"We have orders to march, and all hands are getting ready; you go right
out and pack up the papers."
This was news--good news, I thought--and, saying as much to the Captain,
I ventured to ask if we were to go to Manassas.
"No, no; there is enough up there doing nothing; we are to go down to
hunt for those damned Tennessee Unionists that are burning bridges."
This wasn't so satisfactory, but I was glad to hear that we were to
leave Richmond _at once_, and I hastened to Camp Lee. Here I found
everybody packing up, everything was in commotion, and I entered with
zest into the preparation to leave Camp Lee.
Lieutenant Claiborne and one section of the battery were to remain in
Richmond.
It appears that a sudden demand had been made on the Rebel War
Department for troops to protect the railroad bridges in East Tennessee,
and as our old Captain happened to be on good terms with the Secretary,
he volunteered his company for this service, temporarily, as the
Government seemed unable to supply them with guns to take to the field
at Manassas.
So it happened that, on the evening of the same day, in company with the
Colonel and Lanyard, we carried our bundle down street, stopped a moment
at the familiar old restaurant to taste apple-jack once more, and,
without an opportunity to say "Good-by" to Capitola, we spent the night
on the railroad train, reaching some town for an early breakfast.
I had taken the precaution to drop in to see Colonel Jones, who had
oversight of the mail service to the North as well as the general
exchange of prisoners, and left with him a brief cipher dispatch for my
friends North, explaining my change of base from Richmond; also, a note
to some Texas friends, telling them our command had been ordered to
_Manassas_, and expressing a hope to meet them there soon. I had been
careful enough not to designate the battery explicitly or to name the
officers.
CHAPTER XXI.
MARYLAND "REFUGEES"--COERCING INTO THE UNION EAST TENNESSEE
"REFUGEES"--PARSON BROWNLOW INTERVIEWED--A HAPPY EXPERIENCE WITH MAGGIE
CRAIG--THE BATTLE OF MILL SPRING--FIRST UNION VICTORY AS SEEN FROM
INSIDE THE REBEL ARMY.
I reluctantly take the reader away from the Rebel Capital and its
attractions. I was leaving Richmond at least, somewhat against my own
inclination.
While lying curled up in a seat in the old emigrant car, that was being
used to transport the troops, sleeping, and, perhaps, dreaming of "the
girl I left behind me," I was roughly awakened by a sharp bump on the
end of our train that sent me bouncing off the seat against the back of
the one in front. When I hurriedly picked myself up and looked around me
wildly, I realized that something had happened; and, as everybody else
seemed to be rushing to the doors and windows, I made a reckless break
in the same direction, but before I could get into the aisle of the car
the floor of our car in the vicinity of where I was standing seemed to
rise up suddenly. In the same instant I found that something had caught
me by the left leg near my knee, which held me as in a vise. In my
desperate struggles to extricate myself, I threw myself violently
backward, my head striking the iron corner of an adjoining seat. I
succeeded in breaking loose, but only after the car had come to a stop,
and the danger was all past.
It was only a run-off, that caused the truck under our car to turn and
twist itself upside down in such a way as to force part of the woodwork
through the floor, resulting in squeezing my leg against the seat, so
that it cut deeply into the flesh and left a mark big enough to entitle
me to a pension--when the Rebel soldiers get their turn.
This happened near a little town located close upon the Virginia and
East Tennessee line, named I think, Abington. We laid off there to
repair damages--to the railroad. None of us were hurt seriously enough
to require more than a patching up, which our private surgeon was
competent to do. The accident, however, gave me an opportunity to meet,
for the first time in many months, something that was pretty scarce in
the Eastern part of Virginia at that time, namely--an outspoken Union
man, who was also a native of Virginia.
When we learned that we should be delayed there until a couple of cars
could be brought out to replace the broken ones, the Colonel and I
concluded to strike out for ourselves, in search of some warm meals and
perhaps a bed. With his assistance I limped along to a house standing
some distance from the railroad track, where we applied for
entertainment, offering pay for the same.
A tall, lank man met us pleasantly at his gate, and to our proposition
he replied in a cordial, though dignified, manner so foreign to his
appearance and surroundings that I was surprised.
"If you young gentlemen will step inside my house, my wife, no doubt,
will be pleased to entertain you."
Inside the large, old-fashioned country house, such as I had seen more
frequently in Pennsylvania than in Virginia, we were introduced to
"Mother," as a couple of young gentlemen who had been belated by the
railroad mishap, and desired some warm food.
I had been a soldier long enough then to understand, in a vague sort of
a way, that the term "gentleman" was not properly applied to common
soldiers, though we endeavored, by our conduct, to merit the title at
this time. It was my zealous Rebel friend, the Colonel, who got into an
argument with our host over the war question.
It was brought about by something that was said during the natural
inquiries that follow such meetings as to where we came from, etc., when
the Colonel rather boastfully, perhaps, informed him that we were a band
of exiles from Maryland. We had enjoyed so much homage on this score
while in Richmond that it had become a second nature to us to expect it
as a matter of course from all quarters, and when this West Virginia
gentleman rather quizzingly observed:
"Well, now, Mother, isn't this remarkable. Here are some Maryland
secessionists being sent away down here to Tennessee to punish and
coerce Unionists?"
It seems that this Unionist, who lived in what is now West Virginia,
was a member of the State Legislature, and who was also a citizen of
some prominence, highly esteemed, and looked upon as one of the leaders
of this band of Unionists that devotedly remained steadfastly loyal
throughout the war.
The general tenor of the conversation had the effect of reviving my
interest, and served to stir anew my zeal for the cause. It also gave me
a wonderful appetite for the old-fashioned, home-like meal that the good
mother had been preparing for us, while the other fellows were talking.
That I enjoyed the good, warm supper more than the Colonel, was evident
to all the household, because he had permitted the talk to raise his
choler so that he was scarcely in a suitable frame of mind to appreciate
the kind attention of the lady.
They declined our proffered pay for the entertainment, which had so
generously been furnished. As we were about to leave, and while the
Colonel and the host were yet predicting, each in his own way, all sorts
of terrible dangers, I could not resist the temptation, while saying
"Good-by" to the old lady, to quietly whisper to her that I was heartily
glad to have met with a Union family; that I was reminded of home very
much by the visit, and I would soon be home, too. She was so surprised
at my manner that she wasn't able to answer.
What the Colonel got from the old man as a parting salute I don't know,
only that it made him very cross and had the disagreeable effect of
causing him to want to walk back to the train faster than I was able to
keep up in my crippled condition.
We passed through Greenville, in East Tennessee, which was pointed out
to us as the home of Senator Andy Johnson, of Tennessee. I should have
liked to stop over here to have visited the residence and met some of
the friends of Senator Johnson, who had been so much interested in my
Southern experiences, but our train only remained a little while. We
moved along slowly enough, stopping at what I thought must be every
side-track on the road, to meet some trains that were due from the
opposite direction, but which seemed never to come.
The burning of several of the bridges by Unionists, or those who were
charged with being Unionists, had put the railroad people all out of
their regular reckoning, causing this general delay of the trains.
By reason of my rather close official and personal relations with the
Captain of our company, I was enabled by some quiet questioning to learn
from him in advance of the rest of the boys that our destination was
Knoxville, Tennessee, or, as he termed it in the military phrases that we
learned to use so aptly, "Knoxville was to be our base of operations,
but our objective point was probably Cumberland Gap, that being the
nearest point of probable contact with the enemy."
I was very glad to learn that there was to be something that looked like
a contact, because, now that I had left Richmond and Virginia, my entire
purpose and aim was to get back home as quickly as possible, and they
couldn't "advance on the enemy" any too quickly for me. In thus coming
down to Tennessee to get to Washington, the old saying was realized in
my case, that "The nearest way home often leads the farthest way round."
We reached Knoxville on a cold, cheerless day. A crowd of Yankee troops
could not have met with a more chilling reception in any town in the
South than was accorded to the Maryland Refugee's Rebel Battery--both by
the people and the weather.
I had become rather accustomed, like the rest of the Maryland fellows,
to expect complimentary observations on our self-sacrificing spirit, in
exiling ourselves from our homes for the good of the Southern cause. We
didn't get any of this sort of taffy in East Tennessee. I thought I was
the only man in the crowd who felt like resenting this "outrageous
treatment," as they all felt it to be; but, as will be seen hereafter,
there were others besides myself in this battery of Maryland refugees
who secretly enjoyed the discomfiture of our officers and men at the
hands of the Tennessee Unionists.
To me it was most refreshing to meet with an outspoken Union man. Of
course, they were--at this time--somewhat careful in their expressions
of dissent to the Southern cause, but we all understood, in a general
way, that those who were not outspoken in their sentiments for the South
were opposed to secession and the war, and as the outspoken element was
just then mighty scarce, the inference was that the majority was against
us.
Quarters had been provided for our crowd in what must have been a
deserted old mansion house, which was situated--as nearly as I can
remember--on a road near the outskirts of the town. I think it was the
Swan House. If the house is still there, I am sure I will find it when I
go down there to revisit and renew some old but not forgotten
friendships, and, perhaps, may be able to practice some amateur
photography on it and some of the "scenes" which are related in this
chapter, that I may supply some friendly reader hereafter.
On account of the accident up the road, which had bruised me up so that
I was becoming quite lame and helpless, it was arranged that I should
find a private house in which to live until I could sufficiently
recuperate to stand the travel on horseback.
It is likely that I was indebted to my constant friend's (the Colonel)
consideration for securing me comfortable quarters in the home of a
refined family, who lived in that section of the town known, I think, as
East Knoxville. The name was Craig. I am giving the correct names here,
because I am desirous, even at this late date, of acknowledging an
indebtedness to this family for their many kindnesses to me, as well,
also, that I may explain to them and the other residents of that city
some of my actions that, at the time, must have been bewildering in the
light they then had. If they have thought of me at all since I was their
guest in 1861, the lapse of twenty-five years has not served to further
enlighten them, and will be, at least, a gratification to them as well
as to myself.
Mr. Craig was an official at the County Court House, located in the
other end of the town--I think either the Prothonotory or County Clerk.
He was rather an old gentleman at that time and is scarcely living now,
but his family of accomplished daughters, who were then at home, if
living, will no doubt recall their soldier guest of 1861.
Mine host was one of those old-fashioned gentlemen, who was able to
entertain a visitor handsomely without asking questions; it was
understood that he was or, at least, had been a Union man. On this
important question, at that time, he was the most agreeably
non-committal man in his own house of any person I have ever met. The
wife and mother, like the father, was all attention and kindness to the
needs of the poor soldiers, never stopping a moment to inquire whether
they were of the North or the South.
There was a daughter, Mary, who was decidedly and emphatically a
warm-hearted "Female Rebel." An elder sister, Miss Maggie, whom I will
only attempt to describe as a most amiable, sweet girl, with dark, wavy,
auburn hair, was the Union girl of the family; though not as outspoken
or decided in her way of expressing herself, she was, nevertheless,
settled in her conviction that the Government was right and that slavery
was wrong; and she put it, at the time, in a way that was comforting to
me:
"It's not right; slavery is a sin and an evil, and it will not be
permitted to exist."
Of course, Miss Maggie became a favorite with me during the week or two
that I remained confined to the house by the bruises which had been so
aggravated by the cold and neglect into something that threatened
serious results. She was the good angel of the family, and attended to
my every need as if I were an only brother returned from the war to
receive her nursing and tender care.
There was also a younger sister, Laura, perhaps about twelve or fourteen
years old, the little beauty of the family, with dark eyes and long,
curling hair, whose political sentiments, sweetly and disdainfully
expressed, agreed with those of the Rebel sister. All of the family
were, however, kind and good, and, in the almost constant discussion of
the merits of the two sides, not an unkind or harsh word was spoken of
either.
At every meal-time the old gentleman reverently asked a blessing over
the table, and usually lengthened it into prayers for both sides.
Around the corner from Mr. Craig's house, on a lot that almost joined
the Craig property, in the rear, was the house of Parson Brownlow. At
the time of which I am writing Mr. Brownlow was achieving national
reputation by his bold and defiant stand against the Southern leaders,
and his outspoken, belligerent Union sentiments had gotten him into all
sorts of trouble with Jeff Davis' Government.
I had heard of Parson Brownlow all my life, having been raised in a
Methodist family. Before the war I had been much interested in his
denominational discussions with the Baptists of Tennessee, the accounts
of which were printed at the time.
The Craig family were, I think, Baptists, and probably on this account
they were, as Miss Craig politely put it, "Neighborly, but not
intimate," with the Brownlow family.
It seemed as if the family had always been in hot water. There was a
son, who had either killed somebody or been killed himself. Another boy
was around stirring things up in a way that made the old town lively.
The old gentleman owned and edited a paper--the Knoxville _Whig_--that
circulated pretty much everywhere, and served to stir people and things
up, not only in East Tennessee, but all over the country.
At the time of which I am writing, the parson had been arrested, by
order of the Rebel Government, for his outspoken Union sentiments, and
was a prisoner in his own house.
I thought at the time of my visit that, personally, Mr. Brownlow and his
family did not seem to receive much sympathy from his immediate
neighbors, though politically the town was in full accord with his
sentiments.
The members of the family were, however, quite able to take care of
themselves. They seemed to be entirely indifferent as to the opinions on
the propriety of their course that other people might entertain.
Mr. Brownlow himself was a rather tall, gaunt, smooth-faced old
gentleman; just such an appearance as one would expect to find in the
pioneer backwoods Methodist preacher of the Peter Cartwright stamp.
His smooth face, which was strongly marked, was rather expressionless,
reminding one somewhat of an Indian. The cheek-bones were prominent, and
his under lips protruded, which, with his touseled hair, gave him
something of a belligerent air.
I saw him frequently, and it always seemed to me as if his broad lower
jaw snapped open and shut when he spoke, something like an automatic
machine that one sees the ventriloquists working on the stage. On my
youthful and inquisitive mind, at the time, was created the impression
that he never spoke at all except to "jaw" somebody or something. I'm
not attempting a criticism of Parson Brownlow. Everybody knows that
every time he opened his mouth he said something, and that his words
to-day are quoted all over the land. It was his abrupt manner that
seemed so odd and harsh to me, when compared with the mild,
courteously-spoken words of the official and Unionist, Mr. Craig, my
host--the two persons being so closely associated in my mind and
observation daily.
The home of Parson Brownlow was one of the plain, old-time structures
that are to be met with by the hundred in every town of like size and
character as Knoxville. It was situated in what would be called a back
street; it was not so pretentious, but probably fully as comfortable as
some of the houses on the front streets.
Of course, there was a porch in front of the house extending over each
side of the front door. The only difference in the style of architecture
in this particular porch from all the others was, that on account of its
abutting too closely on the pavement, or slab-stone walk, the steps led
down from each side of the porch into the little front yard instead of
straight in front on to the pavement.
At the time of my visit there was another ornament or decoration to the
Parson's front door-steps that was not to be seen on the other houses,
in the form of living statuary, representing Confederate soldiers in
gray uniforms, and with loaded muskets in their hands, who were on guard
as sentries over the person of the Parson, who was then a State
prisoner.
He was subsequently removed to jail and compelled to live in a damp
disagreeable pen, that had been used for years as the slave-cage for
runaway niggers. This was rough, but it's true, as I can testify.
One reason, perhaps, for his removal to the jail has not been given by
himself or his friends. As I have said, the Brownlows were a peculiar
people--"devilish peculiar," in fact.
While we can all admire the pluck and spirit of the family, which
resented the presence of armed Rebel soldiers on their own door
step--their castle--one can not help but feel that a little discretion,
mixed up with their abundant spirit, would have brought out more
satisfactory results.
The Parson's combativeness must have been in the blood of the family, as
it was not confined to himself and his sons, but was exhibited while I
was there, in a striking manner, by one of his daughters. For some
fancied or real offense on the part of one of the guards, who was
stationed at her father's door with a loaded gun in his hands, Miss
Brownlow, after deliberately giving the soldier and his officer "a piece
of her mind," coolly walked up to the guard and vigorously and
repeatedly slapped him in the face, and kept up her attack until the man
actually backed down off the side of the porch, while the officer of
the guard, who was with him, hastily scrambled down on the other side,
leaving her in possession of the entrance to the castle.
The incident had a widespread notoriety at the time, when the facts
reached the North; the affair was widely published throughout the
country with many exaggerations. I did not witness this affair, but
gathered from the Misses Craig and others what is probably the true
story.
My confinement to the house of my good friends, the Craigs, though sick
and sometimes suffering, was made to me the most agreeable two weeks of
my trip South, all through the kind care and attention of the family.
Miss Maggie and myself seemed to be nearest in accord in our sentiments,
not only of the war, but maybe of love and peace and, through her
pleasant friendship, I was enabled to lose, in a manner, some of my
interest in the far-away Capitola.
By the exercise of some diplomacy, necessitating a good deal of talking
and some shameful lying to a young and innocent girl, I induced Miss
Maggie and her sister to take me down to the Brownlow house, as a
visitor who was desirous of meeting the now celebrated family.
I did not dare to intimate to Miss Maggie that I sympathized deeply with
the cause of the Brownlows; in fact, I never admitted to a living soul,
not one--not even after my return from my trips--the true character and
purpose of the undertaking. An elder sister, having some doubts about
the Brownlows' probable reception of a visitor in a gray blouse uniform,
thought it advisable to arrange the matter beforehand, and sent the
little girl around to the house one day with a polite note, stating that
a Maryland soldier desired the pleasure of their acquaintance.
The mother looked with some disfavor on the proceeding, but, of course,
Maggie and I accomplished our purpose, and the note was returned with a
verbal answer to "Come ahead." This was not exactly as encouraging a
response as we had hoped for, but, after a little fun from the mother
and older sister over our probable reception, they arranged among
themselves for a short call during the afternoon.
I was gathering information; and, feeling secure through my supposed
sympathy with Mr. Brownlow, I had not the least hesitancy about meeting
him personally; I did not consider the family failings at all. I knew,
too, that I should soon leave there for home--my mind was already
settled on that--and I could travel now without the fear of meeting any
persons who had known me at Manassas, Richmond, or Pensacola. My plans
were to reach the Union lines at the nearest point, which was then
Cumberland Gap.
As I have tried to explain, the Brownlows' residence was just around the
corner, so that it was like a neighborly "run in for a little while" for
the Misses Craig to escort their guest around to their house that
afternoon.
The Parson being a prisoner in his own house, his guard was under strict
orders not to permit any communication between the imprisoned, fighting
preacher and his Union friends.
To make this military order thoroughly effective, the officer of the
guard had found that it was necessary to make it general, so as to
exclude everybody, as it was well seen that the population were almost
unanimously loyal, the visitors to the Brownlow family were most likely
to be enemies to the Rebel Government, or, at least, Unionist suspects.
When we reached the door, where we encountered the guard, Miss Craig
left to me the task of overcoming the obstruction of a loaded musket in
the hands of a soldier in gray. I am not sure whether it was the
shameful lies I told the guard, the gray uniform I was wearing, or the
pleasant, smiling face of my companion that had the effect of inducing
the man in charge so suddenly to change, yield and admit us into the
house without question. But I have always inclined to the belief that
the influence was the large, imploring, brown eyes of my lady companion,
which were brought to bear on the guard. I remember that we had some
talk after the visit closed about this guard, who kept his eyes more
closely on Miss Maggie, during our visit, than either on the prisoner or
the other surroundings.
Once over the threshold, we had yet to encounter the old lion in his
den, or, more properly speaking, the wounded bear in his hole.
The weather was so cold that a fire was necessary, which fact was
impressed on my mind by our introduction into the Parson's presence, his
first salutation being a request to "shut the door," and then at once
apologizing in a mild, apologetic manner; he complained of the rough
usage he had been obliged to submit to in his own house, by the guard
insisting upon opening doors through his hall whenever they saw fit. He,
and more especially his wife, imagined they did more of this than was
necessary, for the sole purpose of annoying him. Mrs. Brownlow insisted
that the purpose of the soldiers was to kill her husband by exposing him
to these draughts during his illness.
The Parson had been quite seriously ill for some time. The sickness was
incurred by his terrible exposures, first while an outcast or exile in
the mountains, and subsequently by the miserably mean and hoggish
treatment while confined in the Knoxville slave-pen cage among the
crowded Unionists.
The complete story of the imprisonment, sufferings and brutal treatment
of the hundreds of Unionists, among whom were some old men of
seventy-five years; embracing in the list of martyrs, preachers,
lawyers, judges, as well as others of the most prominent and respectable
people of that section, simply because they were Unionists--or had dared
to be loyal to the Government, or even entertained at a remote period an
opinion on the subject different from that of the Rebel--would excel in
many respects the horrors of Andersonville. I regret that I can not in
this narrative tell half of my own observation, but perhaps some one
will yet write the true story of East Tennessee in 1861-62.
While I was there as a Rebel soldier, I witnessed one sight alone, not
one horrible feature of which has been effaced from my memory, and which
has not--that I can recall--been made generally public. I refer to the
double execution of an old man of seventy, a respected class-leader in
the Methodist Church, and his son. The old man was obliged to hear first
the dreadful shrieks of innocent protest from his son's lips, and though
the boy's cries pierced even the hearts of the New Orleans wharf-rats,
who had the execution in charge, the old man was brutally compelled by
Colonel Ledbetter to gaze upon the dreadful, horrible agony of his son
on the scaffold, where he himself was to be hung in a few moments.
At the time of our visit, Brother Brownlow was snugly wrapped up in one
of those old-fashioned, striped shawls, that probably belonged to his
wife's wardrobe. He sat that afternoon in a great, old, hickory
rocking-chair, with his stocking feet perched on another chair, looking
at me, at first sight, more like a sick old woman than such a dangerous
character as to require the constant attendance of a large armed guard
at his door, day and night. His face was thin, and his general
appearance of emaciation showed the effects of his recent sickness and
sufferings. I can well recall the queer expression of wondering scrutiny
in the big eyes of the old Parson, as he slowly turned to me when I was
introduced by his neighbor's daughter as a "refugee" soldier from
Maryland. That he was a little bit suspicious as to the object of this
visit under such circumstances is not to be wondered at, when his
surroundings at the time are remembered.
As a consequence, perhaps, Mr. Brownlow was not inclined to talk to me,
more than the ordinary politeness to a stranger in his own house
demanded. The Parson's wife and daughter, however, who were present, did
not seem to entertain any doubts or fears as to any danger to be
apprehended, as they kept up a constant clatter with Miss Maggie about
the outrageous treatment they were being subjected to.
To my own surprise afterward, as well as theirs at the time, I blurted,
involuntarily, out some genuine expressions of sympathy for them, when
Miss Brownlow detailed how the brute, Colonel Ledbetter, had, without
ceremony of a request, rudely entered the sick man's chamber, demanding
that "this 'assumed' sick man set an hour when he would be ready to
leave town." This, at a time when Mr. Brownlow was not able to lift his
head from the pillow of the bed, to which he was then confined. On this
rather premature outbreak on my part, Miss Maggie took occasion to say
to the family:
"I'm sure our friend is not a very bad Rebel; he is pretty homesick,
already."
This latter observation seemed to rouse the Parson's interest in the
visit, and turning to me, in a voice almost inaudible from weakness, he
said:
"I should be glad to know what induced a Maryland boy to leave his home
for this Secession cause."
Just what I replied must be left to the imagination. I don't remember
myself, only that I went as far as I dared, and said in manner--if
not in words--that I was going back home. Something was said, either by
Miss Maggie or myself, as to the opinions we both quietly entertained
that slavery was wrong and was at the bottom of it all, which seemed to
stir the old man up in a way that astonished me. I don't remember his
exact words, but if there is any one thing that Parson Brownlow could do
better than another it was to pile up epithets.
[Illustration: AN INTERVIEW WITH PARSON BROWNLOW.]
"No," he said, raising his voice to a half-shriek; "it's not slavery. I
am a slave-owner myself, and I am a Union man," and then continuing in a
strain of abusive words, directed to the leaders, which would read
something like this: "Any man who says I am a Black Republican or an
Abolitionist is a liar and a scoundrel," getting more excited as he
continued: "It's these God-forsaken, white-livered leaders, who are
hell-deserving assassins."
His family seemed so accustomed to this sort of talk that they took but
little note of what the Parson was saying; it scarcely had the effect of
stopping their own flow of complaint about the guards.
Mrs. Brownlow said to her husband in a quiet way not to allow himself to
become excited, on account of his weakness, and with a mild hint added
that he might be overheard.
"I take back nothing I have ever said: they are corrupt, unprincipled
villains; if they want satisfaction out of me for what I have said--and
it has been no little--they can find me here any day of life, right
where I have lived and preached for thirty years."
There was one remark which the old man made that afternoon which I have
never forgotten. Mrs. Brownlow had been telling about the dirt the Rebel
guards made in her hall, with their tobacco, as well as the noise
incident to the changing of the guard every two hours, and their rude
intrusion into the bedroom at all hours--to get warm, they said. The
Parson in an undertone, as if exhausted by his previous outburst, said:
"They are worse than weeds in the garden, and exactly like fleas out in
my hog-pen there;" stopping for breath, he kept on: "Why, they play
cards on my front porch on Sunday, and I, a preacher, have to hear their
oaths in my house, that would blister the lips of a sailor."
When I laughed at this a little, he growled out:
"Oh those cowardly assassins, who disarm women and children, and set
bloodhounds after their fathers and grandfathers, who are hiding from
their persecution in the Smoky mountains in this winter weather, have
the meanness, without the courage, to do anything."
I was entertained that afternoon in a way that made such an impression
on my mind that I shall never forget even a single striking point that
occurred, and the reader is referred to the files of the Cincinnati
papers of the winter of 1862 for an account of this interview, which, as
a war correspondent, I reported at that time. Once the Parson got fairly
started, the rest of the party became interested as well as amused
listeners. When he would run down a little, something would be said that
would seem to wind him up again, and he would go off like a clock
without a pendulum or balance wheel. Something was said about the
geographical or commercial effect of the proposed separation of the
South from the North. I think I must have said something to lead up to
this, as the Parson turning to me, said, while pointing his long, bony
finger toward me:
"Young man, it can never be done."
And, by way of illustration, he continued in an impressive and intensely
dramatic way:
"This Union will be dissolved only when the sun shines at midnight, or
when water flows up stream."
Some one interrupted to say, laughingly:
"Why, the sun is shining at midnight at this moment in the other part of
the world."
And his own daughter chimed in:
"Yes, and our teacher says the Mississippi _does_ run up North in its
tortuous course."
This created a little laugh at his expense. But, without noticing it or
smiling himself--by the way, he was so dreadfully solemn looking--I
doubt if he ever smiled--he got back on them by saying:
"Well, it will happen only when Democrats lose their inclination to
steal."
After the laugh over this had subsided, he became eloquent as well as
emphatic:
"And that will be when the damned spirits in hell swap for heaven with
the angels, and play cards for mean whisky."
That's exactly the sort of a man Parson Brownlow was to talk; and we all
know that he acted out his words to the bitter end. Then, by way of
personal application, the parson said:
"I am not only a Tennessee Union man of the Jackson and Andy Johnson
stripe, but I'm a native of Virginia. My ancestors fought for the Union
in the Revolutionary War, and their descendents have fought to preserve
it in every war since. This country is as loyal as any State in the
North."
Mr. Brownlow's astonishing way of putting things was impressed on my
mind, by his apt way of illustrating the dependence of the South upon
the North, in his argument to show that disunion was not practicable.
"Why," he said, "we are indebted to the North for everything." While he
was speaking he held a pocket-knife in his hand; holding it up he said:
"This knife comes from the North; the hats and clothes we wear, the
shoes on our feet, every piece of furniture in this room," and, pointing
to an adjoining room, where one of the ladies was quietly engaged in
preparing the tea-table for our entertainment, "the ware on that table,
out there; and the farmer gets all the tools North to work the farm that
supplies the food we eat." Then with an expression of disgust: "Even the
spades that dig our graves, and the coffins we are buried in, come from
the North."
Here Miss Maggie felt impelled to speak a word in defense of her native
South, observing:
"But, Mr. Brownlow, they haven't any better minds or people in the
North; it's only their educational facilities that give them this
advantage."
This gave me an opportunity to say that "the North didn't have any
clearer heads than Mr. Brownlow's, nor any sweeter ladies than I had
seen in Tennessee."
The Parson didn't even smile at this attempt at flattery, but kept on in
the same strain, reciting some of his experiences while in the prison at
Knoxville, only one or two of which I can recite.
That which made the greatest impression on my mind was the interview of
a young girl with her aged father the morning of the day set for his
execution, as one of the bridge-burning conspirators. The Parson's
manner was at all times serious, but his story of the heart-breaking
farewell of the daughter to an aged father, and its effect upon the one
hundred other suspects who were confined with him, and who were obliged
to witness the scene, is beyond the powers of my pen to describe.
The one redeeming feature of it was--the rough-talking Parson, acting in
the character of a minister, endeavored to soothe the heart-broken
daughter as he could in the most comforting words for an hour,
alternately praying and talking, amid the sobs of the hardy mountaineers
who were witnesses to it all.
The Parson said it occurred to him, as a matter of policy, in order to
separate them, and not with any hope of success, he suggested sending a
message to Jeff Davis in the name of the daughter, begging a pardon for
her aged father--her only dependence in the world. The execution was to
occur at 4 P. M., and he had purposely delayed mentioning this last hope
that she might have all the time that was possible of the last hours
with her father. It was 2 P. M. when he wrote with his pencil, on a leaf
torn from his note book, a brief dispatch addressed to Jeff Davis,
craving his mercy and a pardon for her old father. The girl herself took
it to the telegraph office, which was in the same square with the jail;
the kind-hearted telegraphers interested themselves in her behalf, and
rushed her message through to Richmond, not expecting a reply, as there
was but an hour or so left; when, to the surprise and delight of every
person, probably without an exception, a message was promptly returned
by Mr. Davis commuting the sentence to imprisonment at Tuscaloosa during
the war.
I am glad to be able to record this fact in favor of Mr. Davis. I
believe it may also be set down to his credit that much of the
persecution of Unionists, and the brutal punishment of the same, was
without his knowledge. It has been said that if Mr. Davis has been
consistent in anything more than another, it has been in his life-long
devotion to his principle of State rights or local self-government. Yet
one has to wonder how his relentless attitude toward the coerced
Unionists of East Tennessee is to be explained.
In this way I was entertained by Mr. Brownlow, while his good wife and
daughter were engaged in preparing an evening tea for us. When we were
invited out to the table--I asked to be allowed to wash my hands, and
was shown the toilet stand in the same room the Parson occupied. I
picked up a brush to dress my hair a little--you know those pretty brown
eyes of Miss Maggie were yet in the house, and I wanted to primp up
while at the glass--the Parson looked over toward me, after indicating
where I would find a comb, and said, without a smile:
"The combs come from the North, too, and now, since the war, there won't
be a fine-tooth comb to be had in the South;" then in an undertone to
me: "The Rebels are full of squatter sovereigns hunting for their rights
in the territories."
We sat down to the tea-table without the Parson's company, he being
obliged to remain in his room, partly on account of his parole, but
principally because he was just recovering from a serious illness, it
being necessary to guard against a relapse, which would come from taking
cold.
He had done pretty much all the talking while we were in his company,
and as we all knew he was in the habit of speaking right out in meeting
without any regard to consequences, even before the war, and the fact of
there being an armed guard at his own door, as well as the presence of
my gray uniform alongside of his, did not at all prevent his ready "flow
of language." I do not imagine that he would have talked so freely, and
in such a harsh criticizing way, in my presence had I not encouraged him
to believe that I was a disappointed Marylander, while Miss Maggie added
to this impression by endorsing me as a homesick refugee.
At the tea-table the ladies of the family did most of the talking. I
kept my mouth occupied devouring some hot biscuit and honey, and
drinking coffee with real cream in it, out of dainty old-fashioned
tea-cups, while my eyes feasted on the sweet face and brown eyes of Miss
Maggie.
I had enough of the visit, and as soon as it could politely be done, we
gave our host and hostess a pleasant "Good-by."
After this visit to the Brownlow's, where I had been permitted to
witness, in one case, the effects of the dastardly treatment by a
government of Rebels, who were advertising to the world that "they were
contending only for their rights against the tyranny of the Lincoln
Government," and heard from the lips of one who seemed to be a dying
Unionist martyr, it may be imagined that I was in no frame of mind to
dally any longer in the Rebel camps.
I wanted to go home--I wanted to go badly--and I determined before I
left the Parson's house that evening that I should--unknown to him at
the time--advise the authorities at Washington, and give to the Northern
press a careful account of my interview with him. I did it, too, through
the Cincinnati papers a few days subsequent to the interview as stated.
I had gathered so much information since leaving Richmond about the
Union hopes and sufferings, and I felt so great a sympathy for them,
that I was, to use a vulgar term, "slopping over." There was now no
chance to communicate with the North by mail from Tennessee--that I had
yet got on to--as there had been in Richmond, and beside I was so full
of news that it couldn't be put on paper in the brief style which the
simple cipher permitted me to use.
We spent the evening after the tea at the Parson's in the Craig family's
parlor, in a way highly enjoyable to me. I felt like a boy who had been
absent from home for months, and who was being entertained at a farewell
party in his honor.
As I have said before, there were several ladies in the Craig family,
all of whom were present that evening; in addition there was a Miss Rose
Maynard, who was the daughter of the loyal Congressman from that
district. Their residence was on one of the main streets of the town,
and at the time of which I write the Hon. Mr. Maynard was exiled to
Congress at Washington. I will state here that I met him on my return to
Washington, a few days later, when I gave him the latest news of his
family.
Among the gentlemen present was a Mr. Buchanan, who was a Confederate
soldier then stationed at Knoxville. He was, I think, the son of a
Buchanan who had been a Minister to the Netherlands, under the former
Democratic Administration. I mention him here, on account of his having
been more recently from Washington than myself. I was able to gather
from his talk to the ladies, in a general way, that he had in some way
been acting as a sort of a spy for the Rebels; at least he had been in
communication with those who were so engaged, and it was through his
boastful talk of his family connections that I secured one of the most
important secrets of my mission.
I will do Mr. Buchanan the justice and credit to say that he was an
accomplished young gentleman. He had been abroad with his parents, or
perhaps it was an uncle, and being raised, as it were, in the diplomatic
world, he was, of course, able to conduct himself in a becoming way in
the society of ladies. Indeed, he seemed to completely eclipse me for
that evening with these ladies, but I was so filled with homesickness
just then that I did not care so very much about it. One of Mr.
Buchanan's happy accomplishments was his ability to recite, in what we
all felt to be a perfectly delightful way, Poe's and Byron's poetry.
Somebody had learned of his talent in this direction, so we kept the
young fellow "going" right along.
Only one of his recitations remain in my memory, that of "Annabel Lee";
indeed, and in truth, I may say now with him, that "The stars never
rise, but I see the bright eyes" of Miss Maggie, who seemed to be so
much infatuated with him.
The younger Miss Craig and Buchanan were of the same mind on the war
question. My gray uniform talked for me, while Miss Maggie, to my great
delight, amused the parlor full of company with a ludicrous account of
the battle of Mill Spring, or Fishing Creek, given her and her friend,
by the Rebel troops from that section, who had participated in it.
It will be remembered that this little fight was one of the first, if
not the very first, Union victory in the West. Zollicoffer was killed,
and the Rebels retreated in the very worst disorder as far to the rear
as Knoxville, Tennessee, over a hundred miles from the battlefield.
Miss Maggie told the story in her delightful way, appealing, as she went
along, to her Rebel sister and others who were opposed to her side for
confirmation as eye-witnesses to the ludicrous appearance of the Rebel
soldiers as they rode back to town on mules--in their dirty, ragged
clothes, many of them hatless, and sometimes two or three on one old
mule.
To make it more interesting, she related, as a preliminary, how the
gallant Secessionists had marched out of town but a few days before with
a whoop and a hurrah, she declaring: "She felt sure those men would go
straight through to Boston, and bring Lincoln back as they returned via
Washington." The father, who had been quietly sitting back in the
corner, enjoying Maggie's fun at her sister's and Mr. Buchanan's
expense, broke his silence to add drily:
"Mr. Brownlow says, when they saw the Stars and Stripes and looked into
the muzzles of the Union guns, they started to run, and didn't stop
'till they got to the other side of sundown."
If there are any readers of the Western armies who participated in Mill
Spring or Fishing Creek, I can assure them that their little victory
that day was a great God-send to thousands of the noblest-hearted
Unionists of East Tennessee, who, from their hiding-places in the rocks
and crevices of the mountains, saw the boastful Rebels run like wild
sheep a hundred miles without stopping.
There was a piano in the parlor, as well as three or four persons who
were able to spank it right well, so, between the recitations of our
poet and the droll stories by Miss Maggie about the Rebels run back to
town, we enjoyed a pleasant evening together, which will long be
remembered by me as one of the many agreeable nights of my varied war
experience.
One little story related by Mr. Craig, later in the evening, served to
throw a mantle of caution about me, else I might have been tempted,
under the jolly feeling existing among the company, and the influence in
my own mind, as it was to be my last night, to make some "Union
confessions" to Miss Maggie in confidence. Mr. Craig said in his slow,
quiet way:
"There was a funny affair happened up-town to-day. You know there has
been a daily prayer-meeting for some time which has been conducted here
by the several ministers of the different churches, alternately. They
have all along a little sign printed on card-board tacked against the
wall, reading 'Union prayer-meeting; all are welcome.' Well," he
continued, with a sly laugh: "There was a Georgia regiment came in here
to-day from _Pensacola_, and a lot of them got too much whisky aboard,
and seeing this sign, _Union_ prayer-meeting house, and probably having
heard of the Unionists of East Tennessee, served to raise their bad
blood at once, and for a while came near causing a small riot, until the
matter was explained.
"Some who were too drunk or ignorant to be made to see that the word
'Union' was not always to be considered offensive to a Southern man,
would not be satisfied until the card was removed."
This little play of the Georgia regiment on the word "Union," which
serves to show the sentiment and feeling then, afforded this company
some amusement, but to me, the one word "Pensacola" was far more
significant than any other that Mr. Craig had spoken.
There was then a regiment in town from Pensacola. That town, nor any
other, was big enough to hold me, at the same time, with anybody that
had been to Pensacola. So that here was another inducement for me to get
away toward home.
After leaving Richmond and the Texans in the lurch as to my whereabouts
and destination, I had felt that in the mountains of East Tennessee I
would be at least secure from any possible re-union with any former
Pensacola or Fort Pickens associates, but it seemed as if this Florida
experience, like Hamlet's ghost, would not down.
When we came away from Richmond so hurriedly, it will be remembered that
Lieutenant Claiborne with a portion of our Battery had been left in Camp
Lee. If I remember aright, they were either to recruit or perhaps they
were to await the arrival of some English cannon which were expected via
the blockade, and in that case it was probably the intention to order us
_back_ there, to be sent as a solid Battery to Johnston's army in
Virginia.
I was the least bit apprehensive, too, after I had been away some days,
and had leisure to think over the matter more carefully, that Claiborne
might in some way run across the Doctor through their mutual admiration
of Capitola.
As I was "only a boy," as Capitola had so heartlessly said, I had been
obliged to sorrowfully leave the Doctor and the Lieutenant to fight over
Capitola among themselves, never thinking or caring much at the time
whether I should become mixed up any further or not.
CHAPTER XXII.
CRUELTY OF GENERAL LEDBETTER--ANOTHER NARROW ESCAPE--ORDERED TO
CUMBERLAND GAP--A WEARISOME JOURNEY--ARRIVED AT THE GAP--THE STOLEN
LETTER--ALONE IN THE DARKNESS--THE NORTH STAR--DAY DAWN.
Most of the time in Knoxville I was sick and confined to the house,
under the kind care of Mrs. Craig's family. Our company of Maryland
Artillery, after a time, had been ordered away to Cumberland Gap, where
they were to manage, if necessary, one or two old iron cannon that had
been secured somewhere for them. Part of the refugees were left at
Knoxville as part of the guard at Parson Brownlow's house. For this duty
those were selected who had been sick, or who were thought to be
"inefficient" for active field duty. I was among the number so detailed,
because I certainly was the most "inefficient" Rebel soldier you ever
saw or read about.
It will be remembered that in the opening chapter, while I was in
Washington before the war began, I was accidentally, or, perhaps,
providentially, introduced to Senator Andy Johnson through one of
Senator Wigfall's Comanche Indian breaks in the Senate.
I flatter myself that the evidence I gave _then_--before Mr. Lincoln was
inaugurated--shows that the great conspiracy was going on while the
conspirators themselves were yet in the service of the Government, and
under oath to support the same--therefore it was a "conspiracy."
This acquaintance with Mr. Johnson was recalled one day while in East
Tennessee.
Mr. Craig said something one day about some letters that Mr. Johnson was
charged with having written to some Abolitionist in Boston, proposing,
or, in some way that I do not exactly recall, admitting that, for a
certain large sum of money, he (Johnson) would use his influence in
favor of the Union.
If Mr. Craig had any opinion as to the truth or falsity of the matter,
he was careful not to let me learn it.
At the first opportunity, in order to get an opinion from a man who was
not at all slow in furnishing that cheap article, in season and out of
season, I interviewed Mr. Brownlow about the Johnson bribery to bring
him out.
It brought the Parson out, and for a moment or two the air was thick
with such elegant epithets as, "Hell-deserving scoundrels, white-livered
villains," etc.
"I've not been on speaking terms with Johnson for thirty years, but I
know it's a lie."
He was cautioned by his wife not to give expression to his views so
freely. When I reminded them that the matter was public talk, and even
printed throughout the South, the old fellow broke out in a new place:
"Oh yes, I know the Postmaster at Knoxville delivered the letters
addressed to Johnson to a certain party here who is known to be in the
employ of Wigfall of Texas."
That was enough for me. I was prepared to believe that Wigfall and his
crowd would stoop to forgery, or anything else, to do a Southern Union
man an injury. Wigfall was especially vindictive towards Johnson, as
will be remembered.
If Brownlow had not been talking in the same strain to everybody about
his Union sentiments, even while he was a prisoner, I should have felt
from his free, outspoken manner toward me, every time I met him, that,
by some instinct, he knew of my true character as a Union Spy who was
about to return North, and would carry his messages home. I have often
thought that Mr. Brownlow did divine my true character.
In this forged letter matter, if I am not greatly mistaken, Mr. Brownlow
connected one of the present Senators from Tennessee, who was then
Governor of the State. The Parson, in his odd way, had a name for
everybody: Governor Isham Harris, was Eye-Sham Harris. Everytime I have
looked at Senator Harris since he has been in Washington, and I have
seen him almost daily, I have had this queer expression brought to my
mind.
Rebel troops were being concentrated at Knoxville by railroad, to be
marched thence to Cumberland and other gaps in the mountains. Something
was up. Those who were on the Kentucky side about this time will know
more about what caused the commotion than I who was on the inside and
could only "guess," as the Yankees say.
The General in command of the forces in East Tennessee at the time was
E. Kirby Smith. He was, I believe, a distant relative of mine.
Our Brigadier, and immediate commander, was General Ledbetter, a native
of Maine, one of the meanest, most tyrannical and brutal men I have ever
heard of, in either the Rebel or the Union Armies, or any place else. He
had been an officer in the Regular Army before the War; and, as Parson
Brownlow put it, "he had married a lot of niggers in the South." The
Parson made this observation in the presence of his wife and the lady
visitors who had accompanied me to the house one afternoon; though I did
not exactly understand the drift of the expression at the time, I
refrained from pressing the conversation just then. I learned afterward
that he simply meant that Captain Ledbetter had married an Alabama lady,
who owned sixteen slaves.
This General Ledbetter, from the State of Maine, was the willing tool
selected by the Rebel officials to punish and abuse the Unionists--very
much as Wirz was permitted to do at Andersonville. If I write harshly of
this officer it will be accepted as an excuse from me to explain that I
saw him do a great many mean acts, but that which turned my stomach
worst were his roughly-spoken words to an old Unionist bridge-burner, a
man with bushy, grey hair, who was at the time shrinking and cowering in
a corner, looking at me with his frightened eyes like a crazy man at
bay. His distress was being caused by the dreadful shrieks of his son,
at that moment on the scaffold, to which the old father was led in a few
moments.
"Get up here, you damned old traitor," while he deliberately tied the
rope around the trembling old man's neck.
[Illustration: "GET UP HERE, YOU DAMNED OLD TRAITOR."]
It was a horrible, horrible sight--one that I shall never cease to
remember. I wish it were possible for me to efface it from my memory.
After the delightful evening at the Craig's, part of which I have tried
to describe here, because there was a short, sweet interview at the
garden gate after most of the guests had retired, in which the readers
are not at all interested, I went to bed, determined in my own mind
that in the morning I should make the final break for home. I do not
remember now whether I dreamed of the girl I was to leave behind me
there, or that my visions were of "Home, sweet home." Of course, it was
cruel to be obliged to tear myself away from them so ruthlessly, just
when it was becoming interesting, but I consoled myself with the
reflection that I had survived these heart-troubles before--several
times.
In the first place I had deliberately separated from my really and truly
girl at my own home, when I joined Patterson's army in Pennsylvania, but
I had succeeded in finding another, in dark-eyed Capitola, at Richmond,
who in turn had been almost forgotten, in the new-found treasure at
Knoxville, from whom I was now to be estranged by the fortunes of
war--perhaps forever. It was now time to return to the first love again;
and that's the way it was "evolved" with me right along. I always
managed to have a girl, to keep me from attending to business, and to
get me into trouble, whether I was in the Rebel or Union armies, or
lines.
I was being "recuperated" so pleasantly, that I enjoyed playing off sick
after I felt strong and active enough to have undertaken to walk right
through Tennessee and Kentucky to my home.
The greater part of our company being at Cumberland Gap, Captain Latrobe
was somewhere near Knoxville with General Ledbetter. I can not
definitely recall exactly how it was--only that in order to reach him,
to report for duty, it was necessary for me to go out of town some
distance, where I found him in a camp at Ledbetter's headquarters.
I was a little out of favor with the Captain about this time. His
greeting was not calculated to make me feel exactly comfortable.
"You are never on hand when wanted, but eternally scouting around some
private houses, sick."
When I told him that I was now ready and anxious to join the company at
the Gap, he took my breath away by saying:
"You will be no use there."
Then, as if remembering something that he had forgotten, he put his hand
in his pocket, drawing out a package of letters, and as he fumbled them
over, said:
"Lieutenant Claiborne writes me something hereabout wanting you to go
back to Richmond."
Luckily for me, he wasn't able to put his hand on the right letter at
that moment, which gave me a little time to gather myself up, which I
did with an ease that astonished myself afterward when I had a chance to
laugh in my sleeve, as I thought to myself how perfectly natural it was
becoming for me to tell a lie on so short notice. I said at once in
reply, as if by inspiration:
"Oh, Captain, that's probably those fellows I owe some money to, who
want to get me into trouble."
He seemed to be satisfied with this explanation, and to my great relief,
he put away the letters.
Just what the letters from Richmond had to say about me I am unable to
say, because I did not press the inquiry at that time. I left the
Captain soon after the conversation (some twenty-five years ago) and
have not had the pleasure of meeting him since. I had very decided
impressions on the subject at that time, however, which were to the
startling effect that some of those Texas fellows, whom I had run
against in their camp near Richmond, not satisfied with my bluff
reception of their overtures, had been hunting me up at our old camp.
Either that, or Lieutenant Claiborne had met with the Texas Doctor at
Capitola's, where my double character would most likely have been
discussed among them. In this one particular I should have preferred
that Capitola had so far forgotten me as not to have mentioned my name
again.
You may imagine how eager I was for the opportunity to change the
subject with the Captain, which seemed to present itself with my remark
to him. He replied in what was intended to be rather a severe lecture
on what he termed my "fast and loose" way of carrying things on. I took
his medicine quite meekly, and talked back only in a tone of sorrow and
humiliation, taking good care to get in all sorts of rash promises to do
better service for Maryland and the Confederacy, if he would only give
me a chance by allowing me to go to the front.
He was disposed to be skeptical, and I write down here Captain Latrobe's
exact words, spoken to me that morning in answer to my earnest appeal to
be permitted to join the company at the Gap:
"Well, Wilmore, you are no use here, and I don't believe you will be up
there, but I'll see what I can do with you."
He turned to leave, directing that I should "hold on here a while," as
he limped off toward General Ledbetter's headquarters. I felt sure that
he had gone there to consult with his superior officer about some
disposition of myself; and I strongly suspected that the hinted-at
requisition for me from Richmond had come through the military channels.
Perhaps the reader may be able to imagine my thoughts and fears, or
share my feelings for the few moments that I sat on the edge of the
porch of the old log house that morning, waiting for the verdict, as it
were. I rather incline to the belief though, that it is only those who
have been under a sentence of death, or who are awaiting the result of a
last appeal for a pardon, who will be competent to sympathize with me,
or one who has been in such a plight.
I was a long way from home, all alone--in a strange, I might say, a
foreign land--among enemies; at liberty, but really with a rope around
my neck; a single misstep, or word, a chance recognition, was all that
was needed to spring the trap, and my career was ended ingloriously
right there.
I was filled, too, on this bright and beautiful morning with the bright
hope and prospect of soon getting home; in fact, I was starting out
homeward bound at this time; my reaching there depended in one sense
upon the will of this Captain, who could have put me in arrest and
confinement and, at least, have delayed my chances, or he could give me
the orders, that would admit of my easy escape.
The moments seemed like hours until the Captain made his appearance at
the log-cabin door, where he stood for a few moments talking to an
officer on General Ledbetter's staff. I felt sure that I was the subject
of their conversation, but like most persons who feel this way when
their consciences trouble them, I was mistaken.
Coming up to me, the Captain said, in a cheerful tone, as compared with
the first remark to me:
"Corporal, could you find the Gap, if we--" so eager and thankful was I,
I abruptly interrupted him to say: "Oh yes, I can easily do that."
"Well, it's forty miles from here, over a most God-forsaken mountain
path."
I replied that I was used to the mountains and would easily find the
place.
"We want to send some papers up there for signatures. I am here at
headquarters to-day to get our Muster Roll fixed up, and find that I
have to send them back again. We were going to get a couple of the
natives to do the traveling, but, if you think you can get there, we
will get you a horse and start you off right away."
The Captain's companion, the staff officer, seemed to be satisfied with
my ability to undertake the journey, while the Captain himself was
rather pleased to see me show some enthusiasm, or a disposition to "do
something," as he put it.
He didn't understand the motive at the time, but I reckon he appreciated
the feeling a little later on.
So it was arranged, to my great delight, that I should start at once, as
the roll of papers had been waiting for a chance messenger. The staff
officer went to see some one in the rear about a horse. I was invited to
follow them into the stable. A reliable old mountain climber was pointed
out as the best thing for the trip. The details of the mount was left to
the stable boss and myself.
He told me she was used as a pack horse, for the staff officers:
admitted that she might be old, but insisted that the climber was
reliable.
I wasn't very particular--anything for a horse, a kingdom, or two
kingdoms, so it would "tote" me up the mountain. I would have saddled up
right away, but the old farmer insisted on feeding, while we hunted
around for a saddle and other tools. A bag was filled with oats, a
haversack stuffed with one day's rations for me, and I was ready to
charge on the Yankees. Indeed, the old nag was choked off on her feed,
so eager was I to get away. I got aboard at the stable door, found the
old saddle-stirrups a mile too long for my short legs, and while the old
fellow adjusted them, he laughingly said:
"Why, you go on jist like a boy."
I was a boy, and I was going home; but I was old enough to prevent older
heads from finding out just how old I was.
I rode around to the front, dismounted gayly, and reported to the
Captain that I was ready. Then began another trouble. I received more
"orders" and "directions" in the next half hour than my wild head could
contain, which resulted in my going off at last without explicit
directions as to the route I was to take.
The Captain gave me some letters for Lieutenant Elkton, who was in
command of our detachment at the Gap, which he said I was to deliver
personally. I assented cheerfully to all the instructions, but when I
had gotten off some time, and had cooled down a little, and had time to
reflect, I concluded that I had better not be in a hurry to deliver that
letter to our commanding officer. I "preserved" it carefully, however,
so that it will be made public here for the first time. In addition to
the numerous specifications that may be charged against me, I added that
of robbing the Confederate mail.
As I look back over this mountain path, as it appeared to me then and
remains in my memory, I wonder how it is that I ever got through with
the journey alone so easily and safely.
I am not going to attempt a description of the wonderful mountain
scenery of East Tennessee. That has been done so well and so often that
any who may read this will have seen the well-written accounts which
appear in the magazines every now and then, or, perhaps, more
elaborately done in numerous war stories, as well as in the later
writings of Charles Egbert Craddock and Frances Hodgson Burnett.
Besides, every man of the Western armies has hoofed it over the same old
road I traveled that day, carrying with him a goodly assortment of
family groceries and "forty rounds," so that the impression on their
minds will last as long as life remains, being as indelibly fixed as the
everlasting hills themselves.
I can see nothing but the great mountains, on each side of an awfully
rocky road, that seemed to me then to have been simply the dried-out
beds of some streams that had refused to run to supply the Rebels with
water. On every side of me, as I traveled along over these mountain
roads, was the dense growth of interminable laurel thickets.
The country is, of course, somewhat diversified in mountain and plain,
but the general impression left with me is, that it was so much more
mountain than plain that there was hardly enough plain for a wagon-road.
After I had gotten some distance away, and was driving ahead as fast as
the old horse would navigate over the rocky road, houses and farms began
to grow smaller and beautifully less each mile. Every now and then we
would plunge into a clearing, and find somewhere in a field of stumps a
house--one of the small farmhouses where the roofs extend down and out
over the front far enough to make a covering for a porch. On this porch
one could almost always see some pumpkins rolled up in a corner, a
saddle would be astride of the rough porch railing, a few dried
provisions hung in the roof rafters overhead; one could always expect to
find the lady of the house standing in the front door as he passed, and
she was generally broad enough to fill the narrow space, so that only
one or two heads would have room to peep out beside her, like young
chickens under the old hen's wings. I generally hunted the well at
almost every house we came to, when I took great cooling drinks of water
from a gourd dipper.
These were the houses of the East Tennessee mountaineers. To describe
one will answer for all. At the time of my travel among them, most of
the men folks were away from home, either hiding among the rocks and
gorges of the mountains from their persecutors, or, perhaps, having
crossed the mountain, where they joined the Union Army, hoping soon to
return to their homes as soldiers of the Government. There were six of
these refugee Tennessee regiments as early as 1861-'62 in this part of
the State, composed entirely of genuine, _bona fide_, Unionist refugees.
I would like to record a comparison here with the refugees from Maryland
in the Confederate Army at this time, both as to number and character.
I had left headquarters so late in the day that it was too much for me
to make the Gap the same night with that horse, over these roads. When I
started out, though, I intended to do this or burst; but on toward
evening, after several hours of rough riding, I began to find the road
getting so blind, and the houses were becoming so scarce, that I feared
getting lost in the mountain if night should overtake me beyond the
settlement.
So, early in the evening, when I reached the ford or crossing of a
stream, the name of which I cannot now recall, I pulled up in front of a
large house--for that country--and asked for a night's shelter. My
impression is that this was a sort of stopping place or the last relay
house on the southern side of the Gap. I found accommodation for both
man and beast, and enjoyed a pleasant evening with the two old people on
their front porch. I took it for granted that they were Unionists,
though they had little to say on that subject, but they both were so
well pleased with my way of talking, and of the encouraging news for a
Rebel soldier to bring, that I think the old woman exerted herself to
make the biscuit extra light, as she put enough salaratus in them to
color the whole batch of them with yellow spots.
I was put to sleep in an attic room, and very early the next morning I
was awake and dressed for the last ride. The old man had taken good care
of the old horse during the night, feeding her on fodder, I reckon. When
I got out from breakfast I found her tied to a tree down by the water. I
mounted gayly. The old fellow gave me explicit directions as to the road
to the Gap, which, he said, was in sight from the top of the hills. I
bade him "Good-by," promising to pay the bill on my return. I hadn't a
cent of money--besides, it was customary for the soldiers to live off
the Unionists--so the old man was not much disappointed at not getting a
fee, but I shall feel as if I owe them a dollar with interest for
twenty-five years.
I believe I rather rushed the old hoss for awhile that morning, because
I was feeling so good over the prospect of getting away at last.
Sure enough, I could see the Gap through a break in the trees and brush
from the next hill-top, as the old man had said. I was surprised because
it was so close to me, and disappointed in its appearance, as I had
expected, from all that I had heard and read of Cumberland Gap, to find
a great gorge breaking abruptly through the mountains.
On the southern, or more strictly speaking, the eastern side of the
approach to Cumberland Gap, the ascent up the mountain is so gradual
that one is disappointed until the summit or highest point is reached,
from which a view is to be had down into Kentucky. It is then, only,
that the grand beauty of the historic old place is realized. As I rode
closer I met signs of military occupation--there were a lot of horses
down the road at a black-smith shop waiting to be shod--a couple of
soldiers in gray had them in charge; further on was a farmhouse, on the
porch of which two officers in loose uniforms were sitting smoking
pipes. I forged ahead, without being stopped by anybody, or stopping of
my own accord until I was almost up to the very entrance to the Gap
itself, when I met with a careless sort of challenge, given by a
soldier, or officer without arms. It was only necessary to offer my
papers and explain my business, to be told to go ahead, with directions
as to where I should find our Battery.
I found our fellows were in a camp--or cabins--some little distance
inside of the real Gap; on that side there seems to be two gaps, or,
more plainly speaking, it seemed to me from a distance as a double gap,
neither of which seemed very deep; indeed, the top of the mountain peaks
on each side of the road that curved around between the two highest
points did not strike me then as deserving the great name and celebrity
they had obtained.
When I found the Lieutenant and delivered my papers to him, I received
from the boys something of that greeting which is always accorded to a
visitor who brings a pay roll or any papers or mail. Lanyard was there,
the sailor recruit from Norfolk, as was also my old Richmond friend, the
Colonel; we three had some hearty hand-shaking and cordial greetings.
The Colonel, who was really the Sergeant, could not spare the time from
some duty to accompany me, but Lanyard escorted me over to the real Gap,
and it was there, as I stood on the crest of that great mountain top and
looked down, down into the tree-tops of a great forest, far below and
stretching away in the distance as far as I could see, that I realized
what Cumberland Gap was. I could see threading along through the mass of
trees that looked like mere bushes, so far down were they, a winding
cord that resembled to my mind then a kite-string that had dropped down
from above. This was the long, narrow and crooked road which led to the
Union forces, which I knew were somewhere pretty close.
We were looking over into Kentucky and into the Union. I don't think I
spoke much. I know that when such a scene is presented to me for the
first time, I am struck dumb, as it were, and not able to rave over it,
as I have so often heard others do, and have envied them.
To my first question, as to the location of the Yankees, Lanyard
pointing to a clump of trees forming a little grove, seemingly isolated
from the rest and a little to one side of the road, said:
"That's where they were in force when they made that attack on the Gap
here."
Then we walked over to a stockade made of the trunks of saplings put on
end in ditches, reaching up ten feet, behind which our Maryland boys
were located. They had two guns then, and I was shown the marks of
bullets of the Yankees, which were in the new wood of the stockade.
Those who were on guard had a good deal to say of these wonderful guns
of the Yankees that could imbed such a large long ball so deeply in the
hard wood of the stockade. Our Battery had actually enjoyed the glory of
putting a couple dozen of shots over into Kentucky somewhere. The bold
refugees from Ireland imagined that they had done some wonderful
execution by these few shots, but, upon investigation a few days later,
I found that our troops were so close to the guns at the time, that the
shots passed not only over them, but landed a long distance beyond,
where they probably fell among the tree-tops and only scared the owls.
If this attack of our troops had been made after my report of the weak
condition of the defenses of the Rebels, it might have resulted in an
early capture of Cumberland Gap.
I lingered a long time in the Gap, at such points as admitted of my
seeing out into Kentucky. I kept my eager longing eyes strained over
that vista, hoping I might see the Stars and Stripes floating defiantly
above the tree-tops. So eager was I to learn about the land of hope and
of home, that lay stretched out before me, that I quickly gathered from
these soldiers who were about me all the information they had about the
land that lay beyond. My curiosity was pardonable at the time, because
they supposed I was green and had never seen the Yankee country before.
They were also quite anxious to tell all they knew, and more too. I
gathered enough information in a very short time to satisfy me, first,
that there were no Rebel pickets stationed beyond the Gap, though some
predatory horsemen belonging to the artillery, and mounted on anything
they could get, were in the habit of scouting out the roads occasionally
for forage; secondly, the Yankees were in force within a few miles of
me. I was told that their Cavalry frequently came almost to the foot of
the mountain below.
This was enough. I should not allow another sun to set or rise on me
before I had put myself under the protection of the old flag. I sat
alone on a log, on the side of the hill, for a long time. I recalled
that awfully hot July day that my companion and myself had sat out
together on a log in like manner on a hill-side, very like this one, at
Harper's Ferry, that other great hole in the mountains near my home, and
how we both escaped inside the lines in the evening. My experiences in
the Rebel lines during the months that followed passed before me
rapidly. I was willing to risk a good deal to get away without the
formality of a "Good-by" to the boys whom I had just met and left at the
camp a little to the rear. I remarked to the sentry who was on guard
nearest me:
"Is there any danger of being caught if I go down the hill to that house
(pointing to one right below); I want to get something good to eat."
"Oh, no," he said, "our fellows go down there all the time."
He was a very obliging sentry. If he had orders at all, they were
probably to allow no one to pass in; so, with a heart throbbing with
suppressed excitement, I looked around. It was close on to evening,
about supper time in the Rebel camps. Lanyard had returned to the
performance of some duty. No one was near except the good-natured
sentry. I leisurely stepped beyond "bounds," and, with a parting
injunction to the soldier not to shoot when he saw me coming up, I
stepped off down grade at a lively gait, and was soon winding down the
horse-shoe curved road, which led me either to home or heaven, liberty
or death.
Before reaching the foot of the winding road, that led on past the
little house standing some distance below, I stopped a moment--only a
moment--to plan. In those days my mind was soon made up, and, once I had
decided a matter, I was always prepared to act upon it the same moment.
I concluded not to go to the house--that I must avoid leaving any trail
by which I might be traced. To accomplish this, it was necessary that I
leave the road and clamber up the steep side-hill embankment, which was
full of brush and thickets; by so doing it would lead me into a wood to
the side of the house.
It was probably another of my mistakes to have left the road and climbed
that hill to get into the wood. I saw at the foot of the mountain below
me the little old house by the roadside, which reminded me, both by its
similarity in appearance and location of the old shanty near Manassas,
where I had experienced so much annoying trouble from the quizzical and
curious old bushwhacker proprietor, after my failure to get through the
lines to Washington that night in August, 1861. It must have been about
supper time when I had gotten pretty close to the house that day,
because the curling, blueish smoke from a freshly-made wood fire was
just then beginning to pour from the top of the big rough-stone and mud
chimney, which was, as usual, hung on to the end of the cabin as a sort
of annex.
The sentry I had so recently left at the top of the mountain had said
that "our men" were in the habit of going down to the house, but, with
the vision before me of former experience in such a mixed crowd in a
shanty in Virginia, I quickly enough decided to apply some strategy and
to flank the obstacle.
It's a simple matter to plan things and to apply strategy to the
proposed movements. By the time I had climbed up that perpendicular
cliff to the side of the road, through a thicket of last year's
blackberry bushes, that were apparently growing out of a stone quarry, I
was so done out that I had to sit down on the ground awhile to get my
second wind. I had expended sufficient strength and nerve in making that
climb to have carried me miles past the house, if I had only made the
dash on the straight road.
From my seat on the rocks among the bushes, which was elevated
considerably above the winding road down the mountain, I could see by
the refracted sunset, in that clear atmosphere, a long way ahead of me.
There seemed to be a thick, almost dense growth of timber, which was
still below me, so that I looked only over the tops of the trees, as one
views the chimney-tops of a city from a hill. I knew that somewhere in
that general direction were the Union forces, which had recently
attacked the Rebels at the Gap. I could only imagine that their outposts
of cavalry were within--say a few miles at furthest.
The house that I was working so hard to avoid was yet, seemingly, as
close as it had been before I had quit the road. But from my isolated
position I could see only the top of it. The road had become lost under
the tree-tops. Looking back, I could see nothing but the stockades at
the top of the Gap, and these I could only locate in the fast gathering
twilight, because I knew their exact position. There were no signs of
life behind me--nor before me--except that the smoke kept curling
straight upward from the chimney-top, until it formed in appearance a
water-spout in the evening sky.
Up to that time, I might have safely returned to the Rebel camps, or, if
I had been halted and arrested, it would not have been a difficult
matter to have accounted for my being out of bounds at the time. But I
had no intention of returning. I had started for home, and I was willing
to risk everything to get there. I knew very well at that moment I had
deliberately added to my peril, in a blind fearless sort of a way, that
causes me a shudder as I write it down here to-day. If I had been
caught, I would have been liable to summary execution, on the simple
charge of deserting to the enemy, and, of course, any delay in the
execution of this sentence must have resulted only in my character as a
spy being discovered by the investigation which must follow. While
thinking over these things, for the moments I sat on that mountain-side
that evening, I recalled my similar experience while trying to get out
of Beauregard's army in Virginia. I planned a plausible excuse to offer,
in case I should accidentally run into anything hostile, when it
suddenly occurred to me that the "official papers" about the strength of
Beauregard's army in August, 1861, which I had gotten out of the
telegraph office and had endeavored to smuggle through, were the cause
of my greatest danger that time, and I had resolved then that I should
never again be caught with any papers in my possession.
Following my thoughts with the movements of my hands into my pockets, to
strip myself of papers, and be prepared for a dash for liberty, I hauled
out the letter which the Captain had handed to me with specific
instructions to deliver to the Lieutenant.
I destroyed it with a good deal of energy, after having first nervously
opened and read it. By that one simple act, I had cut down the last
bridge behind me. But you will not be surprised at my rash conduct, in
thus robbing the Confederate mail, when I give you the substance of the
letter, as nearly as I can recollect, and, by the way, a lifetime--a
long and checkered lifetime--will not serve to efface from the memory
the recollections of such days and nights as this in one's experience.
"HEADQUARTERS, NEAR KNOXVILLE.
"LIEUTENANT COMMANDING
"DETACHMENT MARYLAND ARTILLERY,
_Cumberland Gap:_
"I send you by ---- the Muster Rolls, etc.
* * * * *
"It was the intention to go myself, but we have some prospect
of a move in another direction, and I will wait here for
further orders. We have borrowed this horse from the Staff, so
that these papers can be fixed up and returned by ----, so they
can be returned to Richmond.
* * * * *
"I have a letter from Richmond asking about the antecedents of
----, and the purpose of sending him up is, that you and the
"Colonel" (the Sergeant), who brought him in, can answer.
"My information is, that he is wanted at Richmond for
something. I'm waiting to hear through the Secretary of War."
"(Signed.)"
This was enough for me. I was not going back now; in fact, I'd rather be
shot in trying to escape in Kentucky than to be deliberately hung in
Tennessee. Those who have read my story will not censure me for opening
that letter and neglecting to deliver it personally. Probably the
rattle-snakes that crawled out of their holes among the rocks in that
hill-side, when the weather became warmer, were astonished at the
fragments of that official correspondence lying around there so loosely;
may be the crumpled and torn papers became the basis of some nests. I
only know that it was not delivered--not much.
[Illustration: CUMBERLAND GAP--THIS WAS ENOUGH FOR ME.]
This accounted for the Captain's curious questions the day I left him. I
saw it all. I got up on my feet suddenly and buckled on my armor, as it
were, and prepared to fly. It was getting a little late in the evening
for a walk out alone in that country, but I had considerable of a motive
behind me, and something of an inducement in front. Indeed, I felt, for
the time being, that I could almost fly as a bird, so eager was I to get
there. In starting off so suddenly, I neglected to properly take my
bearings, so plunged down, recklessly, over the rocks and through the
bushes, only knowing that I was going in the general direction which
led me the furthest away from the Rebel camps that I had left up on top
of the hill. I kept going, going blindly, I thought straight ahead, but
making little progress. I wasn't the least bit tired then. While sitting
down to read that letter I had rested wonderfully in a short time. It
was only when I climbed down off the big hill or mountain, and had
plunged, like a scared deer, into the dense growth of woods, that was at
the foot of the mountain, that I was stopped, almost abruptly by the
sudden appearance of darkness, which seemed to have dropped around me
like a curtain. The curtain wasn't pinned with a star, because I
couldn't see the evening star on the horizon on account of the trees,
that were as thick here as the blackberry bushes had been up on top of
the mountain.
I could only see the sky by looking straight up. I don't know that I
looked up either; in fact, I don't believe I did. My recollection is
that I was only concerned about where to put my feet, and, as a
consequence, I was obliged to look down pretty much all the time pretty
sharply. I should have appreciated just then, more than anything else,
"A lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path."
It took me a little while to "get used to it," as they say when one
plunges suddenly into darkness.
I have read very nice poetry about the "pathless groves," and the
"pleasure in the pathless woods where none intrude," and all that sort
or thing about the grandeur, and majesty, and silence of the woods at
night, but I did not relish this dreadful silence and majesty that
night, and, to tell the truth, I've never learned to appreciate the same
grandeur since.
I like well enough to be in the woods at night, if I am one of a camp at
any army corps headquarters, and 25,000 soldiers are looking out for the
Rebels that may be prowling through the majestic woods, but, alone, I
don't like it a bit.
I was alone in a deep, dark wood, somewhere between the outposts of the
two armies, in the neighborhood of Cumberland Gap.
Everything around me had become obscured by the thick darkness, that one
can almost feel on a dark night. I kept going, as I supposed, straight
ahead, clambering over fallen logs, stretching out my hands before me as
I stepped cautiously ahead to guard against a too sudden contact with
the trunks of trees, stumbling over exposed roots, or becoming entangled
in undergrowth.
This was the tiresome, dreadfully tiresome and discouraging path that I
trod that night, for hour after hour, in my efforts to get home.
Almost exhausted, I began to grow impatient at not meeting with any
encouraging outlook. I felt that I had had enough of this and was
entitled to a change. I was sure that I had traveled over sufficient
ground to have brought me, at least, a couple of miles nearer the Union
lines. But I did not then take into consideration the fact that I had
been going blindly, and had been merely stumbling and crawling around in
a circle, as I have heard all persons do who become lost in the woods.
I realized with a shudder of horror that I was lost--lost, and lost
forever--in that dark wood nearest the enemy; because I knew very well,
from the observations of the country that I had made from the mountain
top, that I should have come out on to the road that led on toward the
Union line of pickets long before, if I had kept the course that I had
so carefully laid out before dark. What did I do? I sat down on a big
log and cried like a big baby; and that's what you would have done.
I wasn't so badly scared as I was demoralized, tired out, and
discouraged.
After I had sat long enough to have somewhat recovered myself, I
remembered all that I had ever read or heard of persons who were lost in
the woods. I recalled that when only a boy, in my mountain home, I had
connected myself voluntarily with a party of kind-hearted mountaineers
who had joined in a body to search those mountain fastnesses for two
little children of six and eight years old, who had strayed from their
home a day or so previously, and were lost in the woods. My two days and
nights' experience in that searching party became of great service to me
now.
I first attempted to ascertain in the darkness, by feeling with my
hands, which side of the trunks of the standing trees the moss was
growing on. I knew that if I could establish for a certainty this fact,
from several of the trees, I would, from this circumstance, have been
able to locate the points of the compass, but it failed me, because of
the utter darkness of the night and the absence of such a trifling
thing as a match, with which to make a glimmer of light in that
overpowering gloom. Matches are cheap enough, but, if I had had the
money then, I would have been willing to have given as much cash for the
little stick of wood, with a light on the end of it, as would have
bought all the logs contained in that forest of lumber.
There was another sign that has never failed the lost and the
distressed, from wherever looked up to, when the sky was not
clouded--the North Star.
While a lad at school I had been taught how to find this, the only true
and fixed star, and that night, while lost and in such dire distress in
that dark woods, along side of the enemy, who had, by this time, surely
learned of my escape, I looked up through scalding tears for the dipper
and the pointer, and through the leafy branches of a high, old oak tree,
the bright, twinkling, constant and true little North star was looking
down brightly upon me as I sat there on the old log. What a bright,
beautiful, hopeful little emblem it was to me then, and how often have I
recalled this night, when I look up still and find it always the same
friend.
I felt as much relief at the discovery of the North star as if I had
found a lost trail in the sky. I felt that somehow I should be able,
from this fact, to come out all right, though I was sorely puzzled to
discover that, in appearance, the star seemed to be almost over the top
of the mountain that I was so anxious to get away from. I did not then
understand, as I since learned, that the range of mountains is nearly
North and South.
"I passed a miserable night,
So full of ugly sights, of ghastly thoughts,
That, as I am a Christian, faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days."
This quotation expresses in the familiar lines my experience more
satisfactorily than I could attempt in a column a description of this
one night of holy terror. It's bad enough to be lost under any
circumstances, but at night, between two lines in a deep, dark forest,
with the certainty of an ignominious death pursuing me as a phantom,
almost mocking me through the screeching, hooting owls, whose diabolical
laughter at my distress, in having failed to reach the goal that was in
sight before dark were audible above the tree-tops.
As I have so often said before, there is only one way to properly
understand the feelings under such conditions, and that is, "put
yourself in his place." This can only be done, and that but feebly, in
the imagination now, because there probably never will be just such
another "dark path to glory" in that part of the country.
If I could only have kept moving in any direction, it would have been
something of a relief, but I couldn't stir without stumbling over old
roots of fallen trees. I didn't mind that so much, but everything was so
awfully quiet and solemn that it seemed as if, every step I made, my
feet would crash into the little twigs that made so much noise that I
became startled every time, lest my every movement would be heard for
miles distant.
So the only thing for me to do was to sit down on an old rotten log,
that I had at last stumbled on, and wait for more light. The wild,
scared thoughts and weird, horrible sounds that went through my head
while I sat on that log in that dark woods that long, long night, can
never be described. There were owls, bats, and other solemn birds of the
night, sitting on the adjacent trees, hooting in chorus, and flying past
a crazy-looking, wild boy of the woods, sitting like a knot on a log,
wild-eyed, and with frantic gestures that would become a person with an
attack of mania, who attempts blindly to protect and defend himself from
imaginary enemies that would fly uncomfortably close.
I didn't see any big game. I didn't want to see any. I was not hunting;
but I imagined there was a whole menagerie of such things around me. We
hear a great deal about the silence and the majestic grandeur of the
forest, but that's all poetry. There are more noises--and the most
horrible noises--when alone, to be heard in a deep wood on a still,
quiet night than ever I heard in the streets of any city at midnight.
It was these sounds that stirred the blood in my veins and kept the cold
chills running down my back, so that I sat there and shook like one with
an attack of ague.
When I could stand it no longer, and found it impossible to move in
either direction, I climbed a tree. In getting up a pretty good-sized
tree, I felt that I was out of the world and away from the danger of
crawling and creeping things, though the owls became more curious and
inquisitive than ever. That wood was full of owls. I was more afraid of
them that night than of panthers--or Rebels either.
Once up in the tree, I was kept busily employed with the necessity for
constantly changing my position. I couldn't get "fixed" comfortably on
any limb or crotch in that old tree, and I verily believe that I
"adapted myself" to every position that it afforded.
From my elevated position in the top branch of the tree I could look out
through the tops of adjoining trees. It was before the season for the
leaves to be thick in that section.
In one direction, I discovered what I had at first taken for a heavy
cloud on the horizon were the outlines of the mountain. There were no
signs, from my outlook, of the house and road I had seen last before
coming into the woods. There was nothing whatever to serve as a guide,
except the little North star. I could only wait for daylight, which must
soon come. It seemed as if I had been ages in the woods. I looked
eagerly for the breaking of the gray dawn, but I had been straining my
eyes in the wrong direction, expecting in my dazed condition to see the
first glimmer come from the western horizon. It was when I looked back
of me, with a sigh of discouragement, that I first beheld the light of a
coming dawn.
"Night's candles were burnt out,
And jocund day stood tiptoe
On the misty mountain top."
In a moment I became renewed with the old life and fire of those boyish
days. Only stopping long enough to get a good view of the surrounding
hills or mountains, I was able to discover that the Gap, from whence I
came, was, apparently, closer than when I had first taken to the woods
in the early twilight.
If I didn't know exactly where to go to find the Union pickets, I saw
quite plainly where _not_ to go, and knowing that I'd not make any
mistake in getting further away from the Gap, I crawled hastily out of
the tree, and in another moment was hopping along through the woods,
which were yet quite dark down on the ground.
The uneasy night birds had flown. I heard a chicken crow, though it may
have been a mile distant. I steered as clear of that signal of the
proximity of a house as a sailor does of a fog-horn. As the light began
to break through the tops of the trees, I was able to make better
headway. The big mountain, that had cast a shadow over the world of
woods all that night, loomed up grandly in the gray dawn; the Gap stood
out as clearly defined in its profile as if it had been cut out by a
chisel. There was nothing stirring anywhere but me; all the noises had
apparently gone to sleep, and I, recognizing by former experience that
the early morning is the safest time to travel in an enemy's lines, was
making the best use I could of the "limited time at my disposal" before
the Rebel officers would wake up and start their scouts out after me.
Without meeting with any obstructions, except the fallen logs and
bushes, I must have traveled a mile, when I suddenly emerged from the
woods on to a path, or mountain road, which led in the same direction I
wished to go. I cautiously followed this until it led into another, a
larger and apparently a more generally used wagon road, which I knew
must be the main road leading up to the Gap from Kentucky. This, I knew,
if followed up, would bring me into the Union lines. But it would also
be likely to be used by any Rebel cavalrymen or scouts who might be sent
out from the Gap.
Not having any means of defense with me, in case I should be confronted
by an armed scout, I would simply have been at his mercy and been led
back to the Gap, like a sheep with a rope about its neck. On this
account, I was obliged to keep myself under cover of the woods, but,
fearing to trust myself again in the deep woods too far, I scouted along
the edge as near the road as I dared, keeping the open road in view all
the time.
In this way I moved along slowly enough, watching eagerly up and down
the road for some signs of a picket in blue in one direction and a scout
in gray in the other.
Soldiers seemed to be awfully scarce out there that morning. I thought
I'd never get out of the woods, or find relief from the long strain on
my nerves, my legs, and my stomach. Not seeing anything in either
direction for so long, I at last, to help myself along faster and with
less difficulty, boldly came out to the road, and, with one good, long
look behind me, started to walk ahead at a double-quick gait.
I had not gone far when, stopping to listen, as was my habit on such
occasions, I was startled to hear what I supposed were horses' feet
behind me. In a moment I was in the woods at the side of the road, where
my long jumps made such a noise in the dry undergrowth that I had to
stop and lie down.
I saw two gray coats coming up the road together, both of them on foot.
Dropping myself to the ground as suddenly as if shot, just where I
stood, I lay for a few seconds in a tremor of fright, the only sound
audible being my heart wildly beating.
As the two men passed by me on the road, they were talking in a hurried
way between themselves, and my presence was not discovered. I lifted my
head far enough to look after them when they passed. I saw that they
were none other than two men from our own Rebel company of Maryland
Artillery; but, worst of all, one of the two was Lanyard, my old
Richmond mate and chum; the other was a fat, young German, who had been
a baker in Richmond.
The first thought in my mind was that these two fellows had been sent
out on the road after me. Any person would have so surmised under like
circumstances, and, like myself, would have been terror-stricken at the
thought of being so close to them. It was not comforting, either, to
know that they were now not only on my path, but they were ahead of me.
What to do under the suddenly-changed condition of things was only a
momentary puzzle. I argued to myself that they could not go very far
ahead on that road without running into the Union pickets, and that, if
they were not captured by them, they would soon be coming back over that
path. In either case, I should avoid the road, and endeavor once again
to get through to the Union lines through the woods only, while the
daylight lasted.
The thought that perhaps our forces had fallen back some distance, or
that they might have wholly abandoned that part of the country, was not
comforting. While I did not at first understand why Lanyard, of all
others, should be the person detailed to intercept me, I began to
imagine that his notion was that I had innocently strayed off and been
lost, and that his purpose was only to aid me in a friendly way, in my
return to the Rebel camp.
While walking through the wood, some such thoughts as I have tried to
describe were crowding each other through my now frenzied brain, when
the current was suddenly changed by hearing the wild barking of dogs
ahead, in the direction my pursuers had taken on the road.
If there is one thing more than any other that a scout detests, while he
is quietly pursuing his business, it's a barking dog.
Crawling carefully toward the sound, I could see some smoke above the
trees, and a little beyond, on the opposite side of the road, a house.
That was enough for me. I wanted some breakfast terribly just then, but
I had no use for any more houses. What I wanted to see was a camp of
soldiers with their tents and the Stars and Stripes floating over them.
It took a long time to flank that insignificant little old house, and
made my legs very tired, but I succeeded in accomplishing the task at
last, and had the satisfaction of looking _back_ at it from a hill-top
on the road, some distance inside, or beyond it.
I saw then what surprised me no little. In the road and all about the
front of the house that I had passed, were quite a crowd of men and some
horses tied to the fences alongside. The men seemed to be armed, and
they wore blue clothes. I wasn't exactly sure of this from the distance.
I remembered my mistake in Virginia in trusting too much to the blue
clothes, and determined that this time I should be sure the wearer of
the blue was a Union soldier and not a disguised Rebel.
I hoped sincerely and prayed that I had passed a Union outpost, and was
at last within the United States. That they had not seen me was evident,
from the indifferent and careless manner of the men. I judged, too, that
the dogs had announced the approach of Lanyard and the baker to the
house, and that they were both detained there.
I trudged ahead, hugging the road closely, meeting with no one in that
lonely country, until so tired out and exhausted, after my night and now
half of the day, that I was forced to sit down by the roadside to rest.
I don't think I went to sleep, but must have dozed off, so completely
exhausted had I become. I dreamed of my capture, the tramp of horses'
feet, and heard the angry voices, which I had imagined belonged to a
gang of Rebels, who were dragging my helpless body to a good place for a
hanging.
In this nightmare in the broad daylight I was as helpless as if tied
hand and foot, and could not utter a word, but blindly submitted to
their brutal treatment, because too weak to resist. Aroused by the
approaching sound of persons' voices, before I could get to my feet two
horsemen in blue, armed with carbines, their sabers rattling, were
almost up to me. In front of the two cavalrymen walking along, not like
captured prisoners, but gayly laughing and talking with the mounted men,
were my two comrades in arms--Lanyard and the baker.
I lay perfectly stunned. I dare not, I could not, move for an instant,
when they quickly came almost abreast of me, and I jumped up so suddenly
as to scare the nearest horse, so that it shied against its companion.
I spoke first, with the desperation of an outlaw challenging a helpless
traveler: "Are you Union or Confederate?"
Before he could answer my question, which had been put as pointedly as
if demanding money or life, Lanyard, with a shout of pleased surprise,
came over to me, saying:
"Bully for us! We are all right, my old chum," and, turning to the
cavalryman, who seemed to be getting ready for a combat or a conspiracy,
he said:
"This is my old chum that I was telling about," then turning to me, for
I was not yet fully satisfied in my own mind--"Why, in h--, didn't you
tell me, so that we could come together?"
Then, after seeing that I was indeed O. K. at last, and, sure enough,
under the guard of the troopers of the United States Army, I was ready
for an Indian dance, even though I was so tired that my legs would
scarcely carry me along.
The youngest of the troopers was a handsome boy of about nineteen or
twenty, who informed me that he was a Kentuckian, and one of the company
of Kentucky Cavalryman in the Union Army.
I hope this young chap and his companion are living yet somewhere in the
beautiful blue-grass region of Kentucky, and that they may see this
book, and will be kind enough to give me their present address.
[Illustration: "ARE YOU UNION OR CONFEDERATE?"]
CHAPTER XXIII.
RETURN HOME FROM CUMBERLAND GAP--MEETING WITH PARSON BROWNLOW ON HIS
TRIP TO WASHINGTON.
I knew by that particular instinct, born of a soldier's daily experience
of months among his own kind, that the two Cavalrymen I had seen coming
up the road toward me were not from the army I had just left, or I
should have kept quiet. Probably it was because I remembered, at the
first glance of them, that I had not seen any such looking troopers in
the Rebel Army, either about the Gap or in the interior country beyond,
through which I had so recently traveled miles on horseback.
After some "mutual explanations and introductions," with a general
hand-shaking all around, wherein it was laughingly agreed among them
that my Jack Shepard manner of jumping out of a bush to demand
satisfaction was a good joke--on my part--as they supposed it, I "fell
in" with Lanyard and Baker, and we marched on ahead of the two
cavalrymen toward the Union camp. Though I was tired and well-nigh
exhausted, I walked ahead so briskly and stepped out so joyously that I
was almost keeping the horses on a trot to keep up with us. This fact
elicited from the older of the Kentucky cavalrymen an observation to his
comrade that comprised about all the words that I remember to have heard
him speak while in his company:
"My h--, don't that fellow travel!"
I am not prepared to say whether the renewed motive power was supplied
through a fear of the Rebels coming after us in force, or a wild desire
to get to a place where the blue soldiers were to be seen in greater
numbers.
As we walked along together, Lanyard gave me a minute and funny account
of the manner in which my disappearance was accounted for by my late
companions in arms at the Gap.
"Well, by G--! I never thought you were a real Yankee. Why didn't you
say something to me before? I was your best friend always, you sucker."
Then, with a loud laugh and a slap on my tired back that nearly knocked
me off my feet, he made a break for the little, fat Dutch baker.
"Say, Baker, ain't you just playing off as a Dutchman? Come now; let's
hear you talk plain United States. You are in a free country."
The baker had suddenly dodged to the other side of the road when the
hilarious Lanyard readied his ponderous claws toward him, and only
grinned back, in broad Dutch, his reply to the suggestion. After a
little more of this sort of sky-larking, as he called it, he cooled down
sufficiently to talk in a more rational way, but kept on using, by way
of emphasis, as Parson Brownlow would say, "Good mouth-filling oaths,
that would blister a sailor's lips."
"Why, blank it--I only shipped with this gang of pirates until we could
reach some civilized port where I could get ashore amongst white
people."
Lanyard was opposed to "d----d niggers," and had somehow become full of
the contrary notion, that the South was fighting to retain the colored
population, and the North wished to free them, merely that they could be
sent, as he said, "back to Africa, where they belong."
"You were not missed from camp last night until it was time to turn in;
the duffer that was on watch up on the volcano back there reported to
his partner, who took his place, that you had said you were sick, and
had gone down to the house below to get a hot supper, so he told him not
to shoot at you when you came in to roost.
"Our old chum, the Colonel, you know, he got excited because you didn't
show up, so he had to turn us out to go down to the old house to fetch
you in. I told him it was no use; that you would be too drunk to walk up
the hill; but he made me take a mate out of our mess, and started us out
after you. We couldn't get by the watchman. We told the blasted fool
that we had to go down the hill to find you, but he kept fooling with
his gun, and swore he'd sink us if we tried to run out of port.
"Pretty soon the racket and loud talk brought an officer and a whole
gang of fellows on to us, and we were taken into the guard-house. We had
to stay there half the night before any of our fellows came to help us
out; then the Colonel and Elkton figured around and, by a lot of
talking, they were allowed to take us back to our shanty to finish the
rest of the night.
"Now I wanted to get out of that country and go to New York, terrible
bad, but, by G--, I never would have thought of going down into that
wood to find a path to New York. I was just going to wait until the
Yankees came up to fight us, and then I was going right out to join them
in spite of h--; but I wanted to see them first. Well, while we were in
the guard-house that night, and our Lieutenant was talking with the
other officer about getting us out, I heard them say something about
your 'being in the Yankee camp before we started after you.' This set me
thinking about your being there and me left in the Rebel guard-house.