AN EPISODE OF THE REBELLION-THE ENGINEER CYRUS SMITH—GIDEON SPILETT—THE
NEGRO NEB—THE SAILOR PENCROFF—THE YOUTH, HERBERT—AN UNEXPECTED
PROPOSAL—RENDEZVOUS AT 10 O’CLOCK P.M.—DEPARTURE IN THE STORM.
They were neither professional aeronauts nor amateurs in aerial
navigation whom the storm had thrown upon this coast. They were
prisoners of war whose audacity had suggested this extraordinary manner
of escape. A hundred times they would have perished, a hundred times
their torn balloon would have precipitated them into the abyss, had not
Providence preserved them for a strange destiny, and on the 20th of
March, after having flown from Richmond, besieged by the troops of
General Ulysses Grant, they found themselves 7,000 miles from the
Virginia capital, the principal stronghold of the Secessionists during
that terrible war. Their aerial voyage had lasted five days.
Let us see by what curious circumstances this escape of prisoners was
effected,—an escape which resulted in the catastrophe which we have
seen.
This same year, in the month of February, 1865, in one of those
surprises by which General Grant, though in vain, endeavored to take
Richmond, many of his officers were captured by the enemy and confined
within the city. One of the most distinguished of those taken was a
Federal staff officer named Cyrus Smith.
Cyrus Smith was a native of Massachusetts, an engineer by profession,
and a scientist of the first order, to whom the Government had given,
during the war, the direction of the railways, which played such a
great strategic part during the war.
A true Yankee, thin, bony, lean, about forty-five years old, with
streaks of grey appearing in his close cut hair and heavy moustache. He
had one of those fine classical heads that seem as if made to be copied
upon medals; bright eyes, a serious mouth, and the air of a practiced
officer. He was one of these engineers who began of his own wish with
the pick and shovel, as there are generals who have preferred to rise
from the ranks. Thus, while possessing inventive genius, he had
acquired manual dexterity, and his muscles showed remarkable firmness.
He was as much a man of action as of study; he moved without effort,
under the influence of a strong vitality and his sanguine temperament
defied all misfortune. Highly educated, practical, “clear-headed,” his
temperament was superb, and always retaining his presence of mind he
combined in the highest degree the three conditions whose union
regulates the energy of man: activity of body, strength of will, and
determination. His motto might have been that of William of Orange in
the XVIIth century—“I can undertake without hope, and persevere through
failure.”
Cyrus Smith was also the personification of courage. He had been in
every battle of the war. After having begun under General Grant, with
the Illinois volunteers, he had fought at Paducah, at Belmont, at
Pittsburg Landing, at the siege of Corinth, at Port Gibson, at the
Black River, at Chattanooga, at the Wilderness, upon the Potomac,
everywhere with bravery, a soldier worthy of the General who said “I
never counted my dead.” And a hundred times Cyrus Smith would have been
among the number of those whom the terrible Grant did not count; but in
these combats, though he never spared himself, fortune always favored
him, until the time he was wounded and taken prisoner at the siege of
Richmond.
At the same time with Cyrus Smith another important personage fell into
the power of the Southerners. This was no other than the honorable
Gideon Spilett, reporter to the New York Herald, who had been detailed
to follow the fortunes of the war with the armies of the North.
Gideon Spilett was of the race of astonishing chroniclers, English or
American, such as Stanley and the like, who shrink from nothing in
their endeavor to obtain exact information and to transmit it to their
journal in the quickest manner. The journals of the United States, such
as the New York _Herald_, are true powers, and their delegates are
persons of importance. Gideon Spilett belonged in the first rank of
these representatives.
A man of great merit; energetic, prompt, and ready; full of ideas,
having been all over the world; soldier and artist; vehement in
council; resolute in action; thinking nothing of pain, fatigue, or
danger when seeking information, first for himself and afterwards for
his journal; a master of recondite information of the unpublished, the
unknown, the impossible. He was one of those cool observers who write
amid the cannon balls, “reporting” under the bullets, and to whom all
perils are welcome.
He also had been in all the battles, in the front rank, revolver in one
hand and notebook in the other, his pencil never trembling in the midst
of a cannonade. He did not tire the wires by incessant telegraphing,
like those who speak when they have nothing to say, but each of his
messages was short, condensed, clear, and to the purpose. For the rest,
he did not lack humor. It was he who, after the affair of Black river,
wishing at any price to keep his place at the telegraph wicket in order
to announce the result, kept telegraphing for two hours the first
chapters of the Bible. It cost the New York _Herald_ $2,000, but the
New York _Herald_ had the first news.
Gideon Spilett was tall. He was forty years old or more. Sandy-colored
whiskers encircled his face. His eye was clear, lively, and quick
moving. It was the eye of a man who was accustomed to take in
everything at a glance. Strongly built, he was tempered by all climates
as a bar of steel is tempered by cold water. For ten years Gideon
Spilett had been connected with the New York _Herald_, which he had
enriched with his notes and his drawings, as he wielded the pencil as
well as the pen. When captured he was about making a description and a
sketch of the battle. The last words written in his note-book were
these:—“A Southerner is aiming at me and—.” And Gideon Spilett was
missed; so, following his invariable custom, he escaped unscratched.
Cyrus Smith and Gideon Spilett, who knew each other only by reputation,
were both taken to Richmond. The engineer recovered rapidly from his
wound, and it was during his convalescence he met the reporter. The two
soon learned to appreciate each-other. Soon their one aim was to rejoin
the army of Grant and fight again in the ranks for the preservation of
the Union.
The two Americans had decided to avail themselves of any chance; but
although free to go and come within the city, Richmond was so closely
guarded that an escape might be deemed impossible.
During this time Cyrus Smith was rejoined by a devoted servant. This
man was a negro, born upon the engineer’s estate, of slave parents,
whom Smith, an abolitionist by conviction, had long since freed. The
negro, though free, had no desire to leave his master, for whom he
would have given his life. He was a man of thirty years, vigorous,
agile, adroit, intelligent, quick, and self-possessed, sometimes
ingenuous always smiling, ready and honest. He was named
Nebuchadnezzar, but he answered to the nickname of Neb.
When Neb learned that his master had been taken prisoner he left
Massachusetts without waiting a moment, arrived before Richmond, and,
by a ruse, after having risked his life twenty times, he was able to
get within the besieged city. The pleasure of Cyrus Smith on seeing
again his servant, and the joy of Neb in finding his master, cannot be
expressed. But while he had been able to get into Richmond it was much
more difficult to get out, as the watch kept upon the Federal prisoners
was very strict. It would require an extraordinary opportunity in order
to attempt an escape with any chance of success; and that occasion not
only did not present itself, but it was difficult to make. Meanwhile,
Grant continued his energetic operations. The victory of Petersburg had
been vigorously contested. His forces, reunited to those of Butler, had
not as yet obtained any result before Richmond, and nothing indicated
an early release to the prisoners. The reporter, whose tiresome
captivity gave him no item worthy of note, grew impatient. He had but
one idea; to get out of Richmond at any risk. Many times, indeed, he
tried the experiment, and was stopped by obstacles insurmountable.
Meanwhile, the siege continued, and as the prisoners were anxious to
escape in order to join the army of Grant, so there were certain of the
besieged no less desirous to be free to join the army of the
Secessionists; and among these was a certain Jonathan Forster, who was
a violent Southerner. In truth, the Confederates were no more able to
get out of the city than the Federal prisoners, as the army of Grant
invested it around. The Mayor of Richmond had not for some time been
able to communicate with General Lee, and it was of the highest
importance to make the latter aware of the situation of the city, in
order to hasten the march of the rescuing army. This Jonathan Forster
had conceived the idea of passing over the lines of the besiegers in a
balloon, and arriving by this means in the Confederate camp.
The Mayor authorized the undertaking, a balloon was made and placed at
the disposal of Forster and five of his companions. They were provided
with arms as they might have to defend themselves in descending, and
food in case their aerial voyage should be prolonged. The departure of
the balloon had been fixed for the 18th of March. It was to start in
the night, and with a moderate breeze from the northeast, the party
expected to arrive at the quarters of General Lee in a few hours. But
the wind from the northeast was not a mere breeze. On the morning of
the 18th there was every symptom of a storm, and soon the tempest broke
forth, making it necessary for Forster to defer his departure, as it
was impossible to risk the balloon and those whom it would carry, to
the fury of the elements.
The balloon, inflated in the great square of Richmond, was all ready,
waiting for the first lull in the storm; and throughout the city there
was great vexation at the settled bad weather. The night of the 19th
and 20th passed, but in the morning the storm was only developed in
intensity, and departure was impossible.
On this day Cyrus Smith was accosted in one of the streets of Richmond
by a man whom he did not know. It was a sailor named Pencroff, aged
from thirty-five to forty years, strongly built, much sun-burnt, his
eyes bright and glittering, but with a good countenance.
This Pencroff was a Yankee who had sailed every sea, and who had
experienced every kind of extraordinary adventure that a two-legged
being without wings could encounter. It is needless to say that he was
of an adventurous nature, ready to dare anything and to be astonished
at nothing. Pencroff, in the early part of this year, had come to
Richmond on business, having with him Herbert Brown, of New Jersey, a
lad fifteen years old, the son of Pencroff’s captain, and an orphan
whom he loved as his own child. Not having left the city at the
beginning of the siege, he found himself, to his great displeasure,
blocked. He also had but one idea: to get out. He knew the reputation
of the engineer, and he knew with what impatience that determined man
chaffed at his restraint. He did not therefore hesitate to address him
without ceremony.
“Mr. Smith, have you had enough of Richmond?”
The engineer looked fixedly at the man who spoke thus, and who added in
a low voice:—
“Mr. Smith, do you want to escape?”
“How?” answered the engineer, quickly, and it was evidently an
inconsiderate reply, for he had not yet examined the man who spoke.
“Mr. Smith, do you want to escape?”
““Who are you?” he demanded, in a cold voice.
Pencroff made himself known.
“Sufficient,” replied Smith. “And by what means do you propose to
escape?”
“By this idle balloon which is doing nothing, and seems to me all ready
to take us!”—
The sailor had no need to finish his sentence. The engineer had
understood all in a word. He seized Pencroff by the arm and hurried him
to his house. There the sailor explained his project, which, in truth,
was simple enough:—They risked only their lives in carrying it out. The
storm was at its height, it is true; but a skilful and daring engineer
like Smith would know well how to manage a balloon. He, himself, would
not have hesitated to have started, had he known how—with Herbert, of
course. He had seen many storms and he thought nothing of them.
Cyrus Smith listened to the sailor without saying a word, but with
glistening eyes. This was the opportunity, and he was not the man to
let it escape him. The project was very dangerous, but it could be
accomplished. During the night, in spite of the guards, they might
reach the balloon, creep into the basket, and then cut the lines which
held it! Certainly they risked being shot, but on the other hand they
might succeed, and but for this tempest—but without this tempest the
balloon would have been gone and the long-sought opportunity would not
have been present.
“I am not alone,” said Smith at length.
“How many would you want to take?” demanded the sailor.
“Two; my friend Spilett, and my man Neb.”
“That would be three,” replied Pencroff; “and, with Herbert and myself,
five. Well, the balloon can carry six?”
“Very well. We will go!” said the engineer.
This “we” pledged the reporter, who was not a man to retreat, and who,
when the project was told him, approved of it heartily. What astonished
him was, that so simple a plan had not already occurred to himself. As
to Neb, he followed his master wherever his master wanted to go.
“To-night, then,” said Pencroff.
“To-night, at ten o’clock,” replied Smith; “and pray heaven that this
storm does not abate before we get off.”
Pencroff took leave of the engineer, and returned to his lodging, where
he found young Herbert Brown. This brave boy knew the plans of the
sailor, and he was not without a certain anxiety as to the result of
the proposal to the engineer. We see, therefore, five persons
determined to throw themselves into the vortex of the storm.
The storm did not abate. And neither Jonathan Forster nor his companion
dreamed of confronting it in that frail basket. The journey would be
terrible. The engineer feared but one thing; that the balloon, held to
the ground and beaten down under the wind, would be torn into a
thousand pieces. During many hours he wandered about the nearly
deserted square, watching the apparatus. Pencroff, his hands in his
pockets, yawning like a man who is unable to kill time, did the same;
but in reality he also feared that the balloon would be torn to pieces,
or break from its moorings and be carried off.
Evening arrived and the night closed in dark and threatening. Thick
masses of fog passed like clouds low down over the earth. Rain mingled
with snow fell. The weather was cold. A sort of mist enveloped
Richmond. It seemed as if in the face of this terrible tempest a truce
had been agreed upon between the besiegers and besieged, and the cannon
were silent before the heavy detonations of the storm. The streets of
the city were deserted; it had not even seemed necessary, in such
weather, to guard the square in which swung the balloon. Everything
favored the departure of the prisoners; but this voyage, in the midst
of the excited elements!—
“Bad weather,” said Pencroff, holding his hat, which the wind was
trying to take off, firmly to his head, “but pshaw, it can’t last, all
the same.”
At half-past 9, Cyrus Smith and his companions glided by different
routes to the square, which the gas lights, extinguished by the wind,
left in profound darkness. They could not see even the huge balloon, as
it lay pressed over against the ground. Beside the bags of ballast
which held the cords of the net, the basket was held down by a strong
cable passed through a ring fastened in the pavement, and the ends
brought back on board.
The five prisoners came together at the basket. They had not been
discovered, and such was the darkness that they could not see each
other. Without saying a word, four of them took their places in the
basket, while Pencroff, under the direction of the engineer, unfastened
successively the bundles of ballast. It took but a few moments, and
then the sailor joined his companions. The only thing that then held
the balloon was the loop of the cable, and Cyrus Smith had but to give
the word for them to let it slip. At that moment, a dog leaped with a
bound into the basket. It was Top, the dog of the engineer, who, having
broken his chain, had followed his master. Cyrus Smith, fearing to add
to the weight, wanted to send the poor brute back, but Pencroff said,
“Pshaw, it is but one more!” and at the same time threw overboard two
bags of sand. Then, slipping the cable, the balloon, shooting off in an
oblique direction, disappeared, after having dashed its basket against
two chimneys, which it demolished in its rush.
Then the storm burst upon them with frightful violence. The engineer
did not dare to descend during the night, and when day dawned all sight
of the earth was hidden by the mists. It was not until five days later
that the breaking of the clouds enabled them to see the vast sea
extending below them, lashed by the wind into a terrific fury.
We have seen how, of these five men, who started on the 20th of March,
four were thrown, four days later, on a desert coast, more than 6,000
miles from this country. And the one who was missing, the one to whose
rescue the four survivors had hurried was their leader, Cyrus Smith.
[The 5th of April, Richmond fell into the hands of Grant, the Rebellion
was repressed, Lee retreated into the West (_sic_) and the cause of the
Union triumphed.]