THE FLIGHT TO THE SOUTH.
The 1:15 train from Columbus to Cincinnati was about to start. “All
aboard,” shouted the conductor.
Two gentlemen sauntered into one of the cars, to all appearances the most
unconcerned of individuals. They took different seats, the younger just
behind the older. General Morgan and Calhoun had reached the train in
safety; had purchased tickets, and taken their seats without exciting
suspicion. A moment more and they would be on their way South.
A Federal major came hurrying in and seated himself beside Morgan, and the
two entered into conversation. On the way out of the city the train had to
pass close to the penitentiary. The major, pointing to the grim, dark
pile, and thinking he might be imparting some information, said: “There is
where they keep the notorious John Morgan.”
“May he always be kept as safe as he is now,” quickly replied the General.
“Oh! they will keep him safe enough,” said the major, complacently
stroking his chin. The major better understood the Delphic answer of the
General the next morning.
All went well until Dayton was reached, where by some accident the train
was held over an hour. It was an anxious hour to Morgan and Calhoun. It
meant that the train would be late in Cincinnati, that before they arrived
there the Federal authorities of the city might be informed of the escape.
It would never do for them to ride clear into the city. As the train
slowed up as it entered the suburbs, the General and Calhoun both dropped
off without being noticed.
Morgan being well acquainted with the city, they quickly made their way to
a ferry, and by the time the escape had been discovered at the
penitentiary, Morgan’s feet were pressing the soil of Kentucky. Calhoun’s
heart thrilled as he once more breathed the air of his native state. He
felt like a new being, yet he knew that it was hundreds of miles to
safety. They must steal through the states of Kentucky and Tennessee like
hunted beasts, for the enemy was everywhere. But friends there were,
too—friends as true as steel. And hardly had they set foot in Kentucky
before they found such a friend, one who took them in, fed them, and
protected them. He gave them horses, and sent them on their way. Slowly
they made their way through the state, travelling all night, sent from the
house of one friend to that of another. At last they reached the
Cumberland River near Burkesville, where they had crossed it at the
beginning of their raid. To Calhoun it seemed that years had passed since
then, so much had happened.
On entering Tennessee, their dangers thickened. They did not know friend
from foe. On entering a house they did not know whether they would be
protected or betrayed. The country was swarming with Federal cavalry. It
was rumored that Morgan was in the country making his way south, and every
officer was eager to add to his laurels by capturing him. In the mountains
Morgan and Calhoun met a party of forty or fifty Confederates who were
making their way to the Confederate lines. In the party were a number of
Morgan’s old men, who hailed their chief with the wildest delight. Morgan
assumed command of them. But few of the party were mounted, consequently
their progress was slow and their dangers were augmented.
All went well until the Tennessee River was reached, a few miles below
Kingston. The river was high and there was no means of crossing. A rude
raft was constructed, and with the horses swimming, they commenced
crossing. When about half were across a company of Federal cavalry
appeared and attacked those who were still on the northern bank. On the
frail raft, Morgan started to push across to their aid.
“Are you crazy, General,” cried Calhoun; “you can do no good, and will
only be killed or captured. See, the men have scattered already, and are
taking to the woods and mountains.”
It was true, and Morgan reluctantly rode away. He had the satisfaction
afterwards of learning that most of the men escaped.
The next day was the last day that Calhoun ever rode with Morgan, but
little did he realize it at the time. Along in the afternoon they became
aware of the close proximity of a squadron of Federal cavalry. Morgan and
those with him took shelter behind a thick growth of cedars, while Calhoun
rode ahead to investigate. He discovered no enemy and was coming back when
he ran squarely into the Federals. The foremost of them were not ten feet
from Morgan, he still being screened from view by the cedars. Without
hesitation, Calhoun cried, “This way, Major. Hurry up, they have gone this
way,” pointing the way he had come.
The major took Calhoun for a guide, and giving the command, “Forward,”
rode rapidly after Calhoun, and Morgan was saved. For half a mile they
rode, when a stream was reached, and it was seen no horseman had crossed
it. The major drew rein and turned to Calhoun in fury.
“You have deceived me, you dog!” he cried.
“Yes, I am one of Morgan’s men,” calmly replied Calhoun.
The anger of the major was terrible. He grew purple in the face. “Yes, and
you have led me away from Morgan,” he hissed. “You will pay for this.”
Calhoun still remained calm. “That was not Morgan,” he said; “I ought to
know Morgan, I have ridden with him for two years.”
“I know better,” roared the Major, thoroughly beside himself; “you are a
lying scoundrel; I will fix you.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Calhoun, with apparent calmness, but a
great fear coming over him.
“Hang you, you lying devil, as sure as there is a God in heaven! I would
not have had Morgan slip through my fingers for ten thousand dollars. It
would mean a brigadier generalship for me if I had caught him. String him
up, men.”
One of the soldiers coolly took the halter off his horse, fastened it
around Calhoun’s neck, threw the other end over the projecting limb of a
tree, and stood awaiting orders.
Once more an ignominious death stared Calhoun in the face, and there was
no Captain Huffman near to rescue him. It looked as if nothing could save
him, but his self-possession did not forsake him.
“Major, before you commit this great outrage—an outrage against all rules
of civilized warfare—let me say one word.” Calhoun’s voice did not even
tremble as he asked this favor.
“Be quick about it, then, but don’t think you can say anything that will
save your cursed neck!”
“Major, if that was General Morgan, as you say, and I have been one of
Morgan’s men, as I have confessed, ought I not to be hanged if I had
betrayed him into your hands?”
The fire of anger died out of the major’s eyes. He hesitated, and then
said: “You are right. If that was General Morgan, and you are one of his
men, you should be hanged for betraying him, not for saving him.” Then to
his men he said: “Boys, take off that halter; he is too brave and true a
man to be hanged.”
Calhoun drew a long breath. He had appealed to the major’s sense of honor,
and the appeal had not been made in vain.
The major kept Calhoun for three days, and during that time treated him
more like a brother than a prisoner. Calhoun never forgot his kindness. At
the end of the three days Calhoun was placed under a strong guard with
orders to be taken to Knoxville. He resolved to escape before Knoxville
was reached, or die in the attempt. Never would he live to be taken North
in irons, as he would be when it became known that he was one of Morgan’s
officers.
At the end of the first day’s journey the prisoners, of whom there were
several, were placed in the tower room of a deserted house. Three guards
with loaded muskets stood in the room, another was just outside the door.
Calhoun watched his chance, and when the guards inside the room were not
looking, he dashed through the door, closing it after him. The guard
outside raised his musket and fired. So close was he that the fire from
the muzzle of the gun burned Calhoun’s face, yet he was not touched.
Another guard but a few feet away saw him running, and fired. The ball
tore its way through the side of his coat. But he was not yet out of
danger. He had to pass close to two picket posts, and as he neared them he
was saluted with a shower of balls. But he ran on unharmed. One of the
pickets with fixed bayonet took after him. He came so close that Calhoun
could hear his heavy breathing. Calhoun ran as he had never run before. A
turn in the road took him out of sight of his pursuers, and he sprang to
one side and began to climb the mountain. A squad of cavalry dashed by in
pursuit; they had missed him. With a thankful heart Calhoun saw them
disappear.
But darkness came on and he had to feel his way up the mountain on his
hands and knees. His progress was so slow that when morning came he had
only reached the top of the mountain. He could hear the shouts of the
soldiers searching for him. Near him was a growth of high grass. Going
into this he lay down; and here he remained all day. At one time the
soldiers in search of him came within twenty feet of where he lay.
It was the longest and dreariest day that Calhoun ever spent. Hunger
gnawed him, and he was consumed with a fierce thirst. It was midwinter,
and the cold crept into his very bones. The warmth of his body thawed the
frozen ground until he sank into it. When night came it froze again, and
when he tried to rise he found he was frozen fast. It was with difficulty
that he released himself without sacrificing his clothing. For the next
seven days he hardly remembers how he existed. Travelling by night and
hiding by day, begging a morsel of food here and there, he at last reached
the Confederate lines near Dalton.