career as a military spy that he was becoming used to the ordeal. He
had his story by heart and he proceeded to tell it glibly.
“I am from Washington and I am on my way to Richmond where I have
private business requiring my attention. I have not intended to violate
any law, regulation or military rule of the Confederate Army.”
The General turned to a member of his staff and began whispering. The
prisoner watched him anxiously. The letters that had been taken from
him named him as Samuel Munson and he realized that it would not do to
forget the appellation. He had assumed that name because he had learned
that several families by the name of Munson belonged in Knoxville,
Tennessee, and he had known a son of Judge Munson during the time he
lived in California. While this thought was running through his mind
the General finished his conversation with his staff officer and once
more turned to the spy.
“So you are going to Richmond, are you?”
The prisoner smiled.
“That was my intention,” he replied, “but of course you are to be the
judge in that matter. If it is your desire, I am willing to return to
Washington.”
General Beauregard shook his head.
“No,” he said, with a slight trace of sarcasm in his voice. “I prefer
that you should go to Richmond. Where do you reside?”
“I have lived in California for the last ten years, but formerly lived
in the South in Knoxville, Tennessee.”
“How long has it been since you were in Knoxville?”
“Ten or twelve years.”
“What is your name?”
“Samuel Munson,” replied Baker with cheerful mendacity.
General Beauregard looked at the prisoner intently and then suddenly
exclaimed:
“Yes, yes, I know that is the name on the letters that were found in
your possession, but I’d like to know what your name was before you
became a spy.”
If he expected to catch his man unaware, he was disappointed for Baker,
looking at him with assumed dignity, said:
“I am no spy.”
The General arose from his chair and paced up and down the room several
times. Presently he halted and pointing out of the window said:
“Do you see that tree?”
“I do.”
“Well, I half believe that you are a spy and if I was sure of it I
would hang you on that tree as a warning to all other spies.”
Baker looked at him reproachfully and not without a secret feeling of
fear. The General called to one of his attendants.
“Orderly,” he commanded, “take this man out and put him in the guard
house.”
Five minutes later the adventurer found himself inside of a log house
within a stockade. The discreet use of one of his gold pieces secured
him a warm breakfast and later in the day he was permitted to go
outside in the care of a guard. The two men were soon on good terms
and the guard did not disdain the offer of a drink with his prisoner.
Before they returned, Baker had the satisfaction of seeing all the
troops in the vicinity of Manassas Junction—including the famous Black
Horse Cavalry concerning which General Scott was anxious to obtain
information.
The volunteer spy now had important information which would be of great
value to General Scott, but he had no means of conveying it to the
Union Commander. Indeed, he was kept under lock and key with no means
to communicate with the outside world. Perhaps his guards repented
having given him so much liberty. If so they did not propose to repeat
the mistake. During the long watches of the night he had time to think
over his position, and to consider his plans for the future. As a
result of this he abandoned all thought of trying to escape—at least
at that stage of the adventure. His one desire was to reach Richmond,
and thus carry out his original design. But if he were kept confined
there would not be much prospect of reaching the Confederate capital.
Curiously enough, the thought of being shot as a spy did not enter his
thoughts at that time. He was so much engrossed in his mission that he
did not think of the risk he was running. All during that night his
one thought was:
How shall I get to Richmond?
Just before daylight the answer came in the most abrupt and unexpected
manner. One of his guards aroused him, shouting:
“Hey there, wake up and get ready for a journey! You’ve got to go to
Richmond and give an account of yourself to Jeff Davis!”
Baker could have cried with joy. The one thing he most desired had
come about without any effort on his part. He cheerfully arose and won
the good will of the guard by his seeming docility. He was taken to
the station and placed on a freight car, along with some others who
were also going to Richmond. Evidently he was regarded as an important
prisoner, for he was carefully guarded during every stage of the
journey. That trip during the night, over a badly constructed road
was a nightmare, long to live in the memory of Lafayette Baker. But
the prospect of actually setting foot in the Confederate capital kept
him in the best of spirits and enabled him to exchange jests with his
captors.
On the arrival in Richmond he expected to be taken to Libby Prison,
concerning the horrors of which he had heard a great deal from Union
soldiers who had been captured in some of the early skirmishes of
the war. But instead of that he was conveyed to a room on the third
story of an engine house in the city. His apartment was large and
airy, and was all that could be desired. He was treated with great
consideration, but was guarded with scrupulous care. Evidently the
officers felt that they had no ordinary prisoner in their charge. The
cause of this extreme courtesy became evident on the morning of the
second day after Baker’s arrival in Richmond when he was informed that
President Davis desired to interview him. The head of the Confederacy
had his headquarters in the Spottswood House whence the Northern spy
was escorted. Baker expected to find much formality there, but to his
surprise found Mr. Davis in his shirt sleeves and without collar and
tie. He was evidently very busy because his desk was filled with papers
and there were a number of persons waiting to have a talk with him. He
motioned Baker to a seat without looking at him, and continued with
some writing with which he was engaged when the prisoner was brought
into his room. Presently he turned to the suspect and said abruptly:
“They say your name is Samuel Munson?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the cheerful fabricator, “that is my name.”
“I understand,” said the civil chief of the seceding States, toying
with his pen, “that you have been in Washington recently. What can you
tell me about conditions there?”
“Not much,” was the answer, “except that there is a great deal of
excitement and confusion there.”
“How many troops do you think there are in Washington and vicinity at
the present time?”
“That is a pretty difficult question to answer, but there are probably
from 75,000 to 100,000, with more arriving all the while.”
Mr. Davis seemed to ponder over this for some time, and then looking
his caller in the eye, he said,
“I presume that you know you are suspected of being a spy?”
The look of injured innocence which appeared upon the face of Lafayette
Baker would have done credit to a professional actor. Nevertheless he
evaded a direct answer by saying:
“No man is safe from accusation in times like the present.”
“But what have you to say for yourself?”
“Nothing except that I defy my accusers to prove their charges.”
“It seems to me,” said Mr. Davis, “that some one said you were a
Southern man.”
“Yes, sir, I came originally from Knoxville. The members of my family
lived there for years, but in recent times I have lived in California.”
“Have you any way of proving that?”
The alleged Mr. Munson shrugged his shoulders.
“I am afraid I cannot find any one here to identify me.”
The President of the Confederacy smiled a somewhat sarcastic smile.
“Perhaps we may be able to help you out in that respect. There is a
Knoxville man in the city and as soon as I am able to locate him I will
have you meet him.”
This was startling news indeed and it came near shaking the
self-assurance of the volunteer spy. But before he had time to make any
reply he found himself being escorted out of the room and taken to his
place of confinement in the engine house. He was treated as kindly as
before, but he realized that the watch upon him was closer than ever.
He did some serious thinking that night. As he looked out of the barred
windows and up into the unpitying stars he felt that he had reached a
real crisis in his life.
One of two things would happen. Either he would escape from his place
of confinement, and attempt to reach the North, or he would be shot
as a spy. All of the chances seemed to point to his execution on the
charge of spying.
But his naturally buoyant disposition came to his aid, and when
morning arrived he was taking a more cheerful view of the future. That
day he was taken before President Davis and submitted to a further
cross-examination. The Chief of the Confederacy appeared to be more
anxious to get reliable information concerning the Union forces than to
prove that Baker was a spy.
“Who is in command of the Yankees at this time?” he asked.
“General Scott,” was the truthful reply.
“Where is he?”
“In Washington.”
“Ah, then he is not in charge of the troops?”
“No, sir, I believe that General McDowell is in active command of the
forces in the field.”
This was correct, and Baker in making the statement felt that he was
not giving away any of the secrets of the war. But the information
interested the President and he turned aside and talked with several
of his advisers who were in the room. In the meanwhile he made a
gesture to indicate that he was through with Mr. Baker, alias Mr.
Munson, and the spy was led from the room and once again taken to his
prison in the engine house. In spite of his optimistic nature these
repeated cross-examinations were beginning to unnerve him. He was
afraid that he might be tripped up in some of his answers, and then
he felt sure that he would be stood up against a wall and shot. He
felt that such a procedure would make him a martyr, but he had a very
natural desire to postpone his martyrdom as long as possible.
His real ordeal was to come on the following day. Shortly after
breakfast he learned that Mr. Davis desired to see him again. And he
learned something else that caused him much perturbation. It was that
a Knoxville man had been located in Richmond and that he had been sent
for to identify the supposed Mr. Munson. Baker tried hard to screw up
his courage for the interview. He was at a loss as to how he should
act and talk. It was certain that the man did not know him and in such
an event he would be in the position of being condemned as an impostor
and a spy. While he was preparing to go over to the Spottswood House
he heard one of his captors speak of a Mr. Brock of Knoxville, who had
also been summoned to meet the President. Baker grasped at this as
a drowning man grabs at a straw. All the way to the hotel he racked
his brain in the effort to work out a plan of action. But he could
reach no definite conclusion. He would have to be guided entirely
by circumstances. One thing he did do was to refresh his mind as to
certain names and places in Knoxville. When he reached the headquarters
of the Confederate Government he found Mr. Davis talking with a man in
a frock coat and a slouch hat. At first he supposed that this must be
Brock, but fortunately he learned that it was Robert Toombs, and was
thereby saved from making a break that might have caused his undoing.
In a moment the President turned to the spy.
“Hello, Munson,” he said, “I have sent for a man who has lived in
Knoxville for many years, and he will be able to tell us if you are the
person you claim to be. Take a seat. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
Baker sat on a chair facing the door and anxiously waited for the man
who was to give the verdict. The moments went by on leaden heels. He
could feel the cold sweat coming out on his brow. But he had courage
and he was resourceful. Once the door opened and a messenger came in.
Baker half rose to his feet, but caught himself in time. He could not
afford to make a mistake. The President and Toombs talked together as
if oblivious to his presence. Presently Toombs threw himself on a couch
in a corner of the room and Mr. Davis busied himself with some papers
on his desk. The spy kept his eyes glued upon the door. Out of it would
walk his doom or his deliverance—he could not tell which. Suddenly when
the strain was beginning to seem too great for further endurance, the
door was opened and a middle-aged man entered the room. He hesitated
for a moment and looked about him inquiringly. Baker felt that he
must be the man. He did not hesitate for the fraction of a moment, but
jumping up and hurrying toward the newcomer he held out his hand and
exclaimed in a tone of great cordiality:
“Why, hello, Brock, how are you, anyhow?”
The surprised visitor did not have time to think. He accepted the
proffered hand in a mechanical manner and said slowly:
“You—you are—”
“Sam Munson, of course. Don’t you remember me?”
“Judge Munson’s son?”
“Certainly—but it’s been ten years since we’ve met. I’m surely glad to
see you. How are you, anyhow?”
“I’m right well,” said the stampeded one, “and how are you?”
“Well, I haven’t been very well, but the sight of you is a cure for
sore eyes. They’ve locked me up on suspicion, and you’ve just come in
the nick of time. They wanted some one to let them know that I was
really Sam Munson. How long has it been since you’ve been in the old
town?”
“Two years,” said Brock, watching the other man intently.
“Well, it’s been ten since I was there, and I’ll bet they’ve had some
big changes in that time.”
“Rather!”
“By the way,” continued Baker, trying to prevent the other from having
time to think, “you remember the Bradleys, don’t you? Well, I heard
not long ago that Sue Bradley had married—married some fellow from
Chattanooga. She was a mighty fine girl was Sue, and the fellow that
got her got a prize.”
Well, to make a long story short the bluff worked—not like a charm,
but with sufficient smoothness to enable the nervy spy to save his
life. Brock and Baker had one or two more interviews, and by ransacking
his brain for incidents he had learned about the prominent people of
Knoxville he finally persuaded Brock that he was really Sam Munson. The
visitor even went so far as to apologize for his seeming inability to
place his fellow townsman at first sight.
“But you must remember that it has been many years since you left the
old town, Sam. You’ve changed a lot since then.”
“Don’t mention it,” was the hearty response. “I’d have been the same if
I had been in your place. But you’ve done me a good turn, and I won’t
forget it.”
There was no doubt of the good turn—if saving a man from being shot as
a spy can be placed in that category.
As a result of the business Baker was not released, but he was placed
under parole. This gave him the right to wander about Richmond at
will—the very privilege he most desired. If he had planned the thing in
advance it could not have worked out more to his liking. He was free to
go and come as he pleased, and he was actually under the patronage and
the protection of the Confederate Government!
For two days and two nights he roamed about until he became as
familiar with conditions in Richmond as if he were a resident. He
obtained a mass of data concerning military plans and proposed
movements, learned where troops were quartered and where fortifications
were being erected. Most of this information he carried in his head,
but in a few instances he made notes of a character which were
intelligible to himself, but which were not likely to be decipherable
to any one else. Finally the time came when he knew more than “was
good” for himself, from a Confederate point of view. The question was
how to get this knowledge to the Federal Government. The fact that he
had been before Mr. Davis and was now at liberty made him seem harmless
to most of the officers in Richmond. He became personally acquainted
with some of them. One was the Provost Marshal, and so, one day, when
he asked that official for a pass to permit him to visit Fredericksburg
it was granted without any hesitation.
He proceeded to that place without any difficulty. Once or twice he
was halted by sentinels, but the production of his pass was all that
was needed to permit him to go on his way. On the night of the day he
reached Fredericksburg he parted with another of his precious gold
pieces to a negro who rowed him across the Rappahannock. He drew a
breath of relief when he reached the other side of the stream, and yet
he realized that his dangers had only begun. That night he slept in a
haystack—slept the sleep of a dog-tired man, if not of the just. When
he awoke at dawn he discovered signs of activity in the vicinity of the
barn where he had slept and he knew that he was being pursued. He lay
very quiet and listened. Voices were shouting and it did not take him
long to learn that a squad of Confederate cavalry was on the hunt and
that a number of horsemen surrounded the barn.
He shuddered at the thought of the consequences. He had plenty of
courage but he did not relish the thought of being caught like a rat in
a trap. He had provided himself with a revolver, and he firmly resolved
that if he were detected he would not give his life easily. He grasped
the weapon, and lay very, very quiet. He was almost afraid to breathe.
Presently one of the cavalrymen dismounted and flourishing his sword
began a search of the barn. Some of those on the outside were shouting
instructions to the searcher, and he responded cheerily. He poked his
sword here and there in the hay rick, calling meanwhile on any supposed
fugitive to surrender if he did not want to be killed. At one time the
point of the sword just grazed Baker’s boots. He could have screamed
with nervousness, but by a super-human effort he managed to keep
perfectly quiet. And by so doing he saved his life, for the officer
turning to his companions called:
“He ain’t here, boys—we might as well move on!”
They rode off, to the great joy of the hidden man. He remained still
until the sound of the horses’ hoofs had died out in the distance,
and then he crept from his place of concealment more dead than alive.
He waited for a long while and then crept out of the barn and made
for the woods. How long he straggled through the woods he could not
tell, but he was so hungry, and faint and footsore that nothing seemed
to make any difference. That night he managed to get supper in a hut
owned by a poor colored man, and afterwards tried to find just where
the Potomac was located. When he reached that stream he discovered an
old row boat. The owner of it was lying, half asleep, on the banks of
the river. Baker invited him to sell the boat, offering the last of his
gold pieces for craft, but the owner indignantly refused saying that he
would not part with it for any price.
This was discouraging, and in lieu of anything better to do he lay down
and went to sleep, with the hard earth for a couch, and the shining
stars for his covering. He awakened just before daylight with every
bone in his body aching, and an intense yearning for home. The owner
of the boat was still asleep, and his craft lay anchored in the water.
It did not take Baker long to come to a decision. At that stage of his
career larceny seemed a very petty offense. He crept down to the water
side and climbing into the boat began to row gently into the stream.
The job was not an easy one because the oars were broken and decayed.
However, by great care he managed to get the boat into the middle of
the stream. At that moment the owner awoke, and when he discovered what
had happened sent up a series of ear-splitting screams.
“Come back with that boat, you thief,” he yelled, “or I’ll kill you.”
Baker did not fear anything from the man, but in a few moments he saw
that three or four soldiers had suddenly appeared upon the scene,
and were talking with the distracted owner of the boat. They grasped
the situation at a glance, and ordered him to halt at the risk of his
life. Instead of halting he pulled harder than ever. Without another
word one of the soldiers raised his gun and fired. The shot struck one
of the oars and shattered it. Once again came the command to halt and
once again the fleeing man renewed his efforts as best he could with
the broken oar. This time three of the soldiers aimed at the man in
the boat. There was a hissing sound, Baker ducked and the bullets went
skimming across the water. The situation was becoming perilous. The
fugitive plied his one good oar, and worked the stump of the other with
great vigor, and in this way managed to lengthen the distance between
himself and the shore. A final volley came from the soldiers and this
time the shots fell short of the mark by several yards.
Baker breathed freely for the first time since he had boarded the
boat. He was out of danger for the time being. All depended now upon
his ability to get to the Maryland side of the stream. It was a hard
job, but he stuck at it with the persistence of a desperate man, and
eventually felt the small craft grazing the beach. He felt a strong
desire to cheer, but he overestimated his strength, for the moment
he climbed out of the boat he fell to the ground, exhausted. The
perils and the privations he had undergone were enough to kill a less
resolute and less hardy man. He lay on the shore for more than an hour,
until finally a farmer passing that way halted and picked him up.
He was taken to a farmhouse, and given a meal which he ate with the
ravenousness of a wolf. His hosts were naturally filled with curiosity,
but he felt that discretion was the part of wisdom and he declined to
reveal his identity, or the cause of the plight in which he had been
found.
That night, in spite of the protests of the farmer, he resumed his
journey to Washington. He walked the greater part of the night and
slept in a barn as usual. He begged his breakfast and then started on
his last lap to the National Capital. It was some time before he felt
that he was out of danger, but finally the dome of the Capitol came
into view, and he knew then that he was safe and that his remarkable
adventure was to be a success. It was nearly noon, and there was
a broiling sun when he finally reached the streets of Washington.
He did not wait to eat or to make himself presentable, but headed
immediately for the headquarters of General Scott. The attendant at
the door repulsed him and said that it would be impossible to see the
General at that time. Baker knew that this reception was caused by his
disreputable appearance, and once he was sure that Scott was in his
room, he pushed the man aside and bolted into the apartment where the
head of the army was making his headquarters. The General was seated
at a desk and as the strange looking specimen of humanity stood beside
him, he said rather gruffly:
“Well, sir, what can I do for you?”
Baker threw out his arms in a gesture of entreaty and said with a wan
smile:
“Why, General, don’t you know me?”
The veteran rose to his feet and closely scrutinized the speaker, and
then he said, with a welcoming smile and outstretched hand:
“Well, by all that’s holy, it’s Baker!”
He would not let him tell his story then, but insisted upon his
taking a hearty dinner and making himself comfortable. After that the
adventurous one sat down and gave a detailed account of his exploits
from the time he left Washington. He presented a complete report of
all he had learned while in Richmond, and furnished him with data
concerning the size and movements of the Confederate soldiers. Other
members of the staff were called into consultation, and after their
talk had been concluded Baker was plied with questions which he had no
difficulty in answering. It was dusk before he had talked himself out,
and then the General took him by the hand and thanked him for what he
had done for the Government.
“You have more than made good,” he said, “and I will see that you get
the recognition which you deserve.”