CHIEF OF THE SECRET SERVICE.
“Is this General Shackelford?” asked Calhoun of a distinguished-looking
Confederate officer.
“It is; what can I do for you, my boy? You look as if you had been seeing
hard times.”
“I have,” answered Calhoun; “I have just escaped from the North. I am one
of Morgan’s men.”
“Are you one of the officers who escaped with Morgan?” asked the General,
with much interest.
“Yes and no. I was not in prison with Morgan, but I escaped South with
him.”
“I had a nephew with Morgan,” continued the General. “We have not heard
from him since Morgan was captured. The report is that he was killed in
the last fight that Morgan had before he was captured. Poor Cal!” and the
General sighed.
“Uncle Dick, do you not know me?” asked Calhoun, in a broken voice.
General Shackelford stared at Calhoun in astonishment. “It cannot be, yes,
it is Cal!” he exclaimed, and the next moment he had Calhoun by the hand,
and was nearly shaking it off.
“And you have been in a Northern prison, have you?” asked the General.
“No, but I was wounded near unto death. Fortunately I fell into kind
hands.”
“But your looks, Cal; you are nothing but skin and bones.”
“No wonder. I have not had enough to eat in the last seven days to keep a
bird alive. Then I was none too strong when I started on my journey
south.”
“Tell me about it some other time,” said the General. “What you want now
is rest and something to eat.”
And rest and food Calhoun got.
When he came to tell his story it was listened to with wonder. He was
taken to General Joseph E. Johnston, then in command of the Confederate
forces around Dalton, and the story was repeated.
“You know, I presume,” said Johnston, “that Morgan escaped, and is now in
Richmond.”
“Yes, I long to be with him,” answered Calhoun. “I feel as strong as ever
now.”
“Do not be in a hurry to report,” said Johnston. “Wait until you hear from
me.”
In a few days Calhoun received a message from General Johnston saying he
would like to see him. Calhoun lost no time in obeying the summons. He was
received most cordially.
“In the first place, Captain,” said the General, “allow me to present you
this,” and he handed him his commission as captain in the Confederate
army.
Calhoun choked, he could only stammer his thanks. But what came next
astonished him still more. “I now offer you the position of Chief of the
Secret Service of my army,” said the General. “After listening to your
story, although you are young, I believe there is no officer in the army
more capable of filling it.”
Calhoun knew not what to say; it was a place of the greatest honor, but he
hated to leave Morgan. “Will you let me consult my uncle before I give an
answer?” asked Calhoun.
“Most certainly,” replied the General.
“Accept it, by all means, Cal,” said General Shackelford when Calhoun
appealed to him. “In the first place, it is your duty to serve your
country in the place where you can do the most good. There is no question
but that at the head of the Secret Service you can render the country
vastly better service than you can riding with Morgan. In the next place,
I fancy it will not be exactly with Morgan as it was before his
unfortunate raid. His famous raiders are prisoners, or scattered. It will
be impossible for him to gather another such force. They understood him,
he understood them. This will not be the case with a new command. Then,
this is for your ear alone, Calhoun, the authorities at Richmond are not
satisfied with Morgan. In invading the North he disobeyed orders; and
this, those high in authority cannot overlook.”
So, with many regrets, Calhoun decided to accept the offer of General
Johnston; but for many days his heart was with his old chieftain. The time
came when he saw the wisdom of his uncle’s remarks. General Morgan never
regained his old prestige. It is true the Confederate government gave him
the department of Western Virginia, but they so hampered him with orders
that any great success was impossible.
In June, 1864, Morgan made his last raid into Kentucky. At first he was
successful, sweeping everything before him. He had the pleasure of taking
prisoner General Hobson, the man who had tracked him all through his
Northern raid. But at Cynthiana he met with overwhelming defeat, his
prisoners being recaptured, and he escaping with only a small remnant of
his command.
On the morning of the 4th of September, 1864, the end came. General Morgan
was slain in battle at Greenville, East Tennessee. Calhoun mourned him as
a father, when he heard of his death. It was long months afterwards before
he heard the full particulars, and then they were told him by an officer
who was with the General on that fatal morning.
“We marched into Greenville,” said the officer, “and took possession of
the place on the afternoon of the 3d. There was a small company of Yankees
within four miles of us, but there was no considerable body of Yankees
nearer than Bull’s Gap, sixteen miles away. The General established his
headquarters at the house of a Mrs. Williams, the finest house in the
little city.
“In the evening a furious storm arose and continued most all night. The
rain fell in torrents. The lightning flashed incessantly, and there was a
continual crash of thunder. It seemed impossible that troops could move in
such a storm, and we felt perfectly safe.
“But there were traitors in Greenville, and they carried the news to the
little company of Yankees four miles away that Morgan was in the city, and
told at what house he lodged. Two daring young cavalrymen volunteered to
carry the news to General Gillem at Bull’s Gap. Talk about the ride of
Paul Revere, compared to the ride of those two Yankees! Buffeted by wind
and rain, one moment in a glaring light and the next in pitch darkness,
with the thunder crashing overhead, in spite of wind and rain, those two
cavalrymen rode the sixteen miles by midnight.
“The command was aroused. What if the rain did pour and the elements
warred with each other? Morgan was the prize, and by daylight Gillem’s
soldiers had reached Greenville. So complete was the surprise that the
house in which the General slept was surrounded before the alarm was
given. Then thinking only of joining his men, the General leaped out of
bed, and without waiting to dress, seized his sword and dashed out of the
house, seeking to escape by the way of the garden. But he was seen by a
soldier and shot dead. The news that Morgan was killed seemed to go
through the air. It was known in an incredibly short time by both sides.
“Now,” said the officer, “occurred one of the most singular circumstances
I know of during the war. There was no flag of truce, no orders to cease
firing, yet the firing ceased. The Confederates gathered together, and
marched out of the city; the Federals marched in; the two were close
together, within easy musket range, but not a shot was fired. It seemed as
if both sides were conscious that a great man had fallen, a gallant soul
fled, and that even grim war should stay his hand.”
It is not within the scope of this book to follow Calhoun through the last
year of the war. Suffice it to say, that in the enlarged sphere of his new
position, his genius found full scope. He was all through the Atlantic
campaign, where for four months the thunder of cannon never ceased, and
where seventy-five thousand men were offered as a sacrifice to the god of
war. He followed Hood in his raid to the rear of Sherman’s army, and then
into Tennessee. He was in that hell of fire at Franklin, where fell so
many of the bravest sons of the South. At Nashville he was among those who
tried to stem the tide of defeat, and was among the last to leave that
fatal field. When the remnants of Hood’s army were gathered and marched
across the states of Alabama and Georgia into North Carolina, hoping to
stay the victorious progress of Sherman, Calhoun was with them.
Not until the surrender of Lee and Johnston did Calhoun give up every hope
of the independence of the South. But the end came, and in bitter anguish
he laid down his arms. He had given his young life to his country when
only seventeen years of age. For four years he had fought and hoped. When
the end came it seemed to him the sky was darkened, that every hope had
perished, that everything worth living for was gone. Oh, the bitterness of
defeat! Strong men wept like children.
Even the victors stood in silence over the grief of those whom they had
met so many times in battle. They were brothers now, and they took them by
the hand and bade them be of good cheer, and divided their rations with
them. The soldiers who had fought each other on so many bloody fields were
the first to fraternize, the first to forget.
When Calhoun gave his parole, he met his cousin Fred, who was on General
Sherman’s staff. The meeting was a happy one for Calhoun, for it served to
dispel the gloom which depressed his spirits. It seemed to be like old
times to be with Fred again. Nothing would satisfy Fred, but that Calhoun
should return home by the way of Washington. He consented, and was in
Washington at the time of the Grand Review. All day long he watched the
mighty armies of Grant and Sherman, as with steady tread they marched
through the streets, showered with flowers, greeted with proud huzzahs.
And then he thought of the home-coming of the ragged Confederates, and the
tears ran down his cheeks. But as he looked upon the thousands and
thousands as they marched along, and remembered the depleted ranks of the
Southern army, his only wonder was that the South had held out so long as
it did. Defeated they were, but their deeds are carved deep in the temple
of fame, never to be erased.