THE ESCAPE.
Frank and I had escape on the brain. We thought of nothing else, and
were constantly watching our chances. One day I passed the guard and
went out to the hospital, but my feet were bare, and I was advised by
a sick man who had been out not to try it. I had kept my old boots,
although they were worn out, so Captain McHugh cut off the tops, sewed
them to the bottoms, making a kind of moccasins, and I was ready for
the road.
Our old mess of three were to go together. On the afternoon of November
23 Frank and I were walking around the camp. Directly in front of our
hut we saw three prisoners, with their guards, come to the guard line
and throw over the wood they had brought in. The sentinels on the beats
had been talking together, and, having finished, marched directly from
each other, leaving a space between them uncovered. The prisoners with
their guards started to return to the woods. “Now is our chance, John,”
said Frank, and without waiting for McHugh, with our hearts beating
like trip hammers, we passed over the dead line, and were outside
following the others before the sentries faced about. We kept with the
other prisoners until we reached the woods, then pretending that we saw
our party over a little hill started to join them, and entering a place
where the bushes were thick, dropped and waited. There were several
details out for wood, and that was no doubt the reason why the guard
did not stop us when we went to join our imaginary squad. They soon
marched in and passed very near us, but we were not noticed, and waited
for darkness before we moved.
We had a small map of the country and knew the route we wanted to take,
but how to strike it was the question, as the night was dark and we
did not have the stars to guide us. We struck out at random and soon
came to a road; this we followed until we arrived at a plantation.
Frank stood guard while I went forward to reconnoitre. I crept up to
the house and was looking around the corner when a negro girl came out,
and, in a way peculiar to the race, called, “Joe! Oh, Joe!” I spoke
to her; she turned her head, screamed, and started on the run, but I
followed. For about five minutes we had as pretty a “go as you please”
race as one could wish to see. She was soon reinforced by a man with
a club. I halted and he came to me. He said, “I know you; you are a
Yankee, and have escaped from the camp.” I informed him that he was
right, and that I wanted to be directed to the main road. “All right,”
he said, “I will help you, but the first thing you want is something to
eat,” and, joining the girl, went into the house and brought out meat,
bread and a dish of butter-milk. Frank came up, and we ate the first
square meal we had seen for months. We then formed in single file, the
negro in the advance, and had gone but a short distance when we heard
voices, so we went into the woods while he kept the road. It proved to
be some of our old guard. They asked the negro who went into the woods.
He answered, “Only some of the boys.” They called us to come out, but
we did not come, so they came in after us. We ran into the woods, but
turned and came out again into the road.
We had lost our guide before we had found our road, but continued on
until we came to a broad avenue, and taking that walked as fast as
possible for several hours, finally coming to a steep bank at the end.
We afterwards learned that this was an abandoned railroad. We struck
across the country and near daylight came upon a plantation. The negro
quarters were some distance from the mansion, were about twenty in
number and located in a square. We flanked the mansion and made our way
cautiously to the negro quarters. Seeing a light in one of the cabins
we crawled up, and looking through the cracks between the logs saw an
old colored woman cooking. We rapped on the door and called, “Auntie!”
She started, asking, “Who’s thar?” We answered that we were Yankees
escaped from the prison. She opened the door, looked at us, then to
the right and left, and said, “Come in.” Going back to the fire she
gave a bundle of rags that was lying before it a kick and out rolled a
negro boy. She ordered him to tell her brother that two Yankees were
at the house, and that he must come and take care of them. As soon as
the boy had gone she invited us to eat. A hot corn dodger was on the
hearth and she fried us a slice of bacon. We were tired and hungry,
and appreciated her kindness. We must have walked thirty miles since
leaving the prison, but found we were only five miles away and in the
wrong direction.
Very soon the boy returned with the brother. He was pleased to see us,
shook hands and requested us to follow him. He took us to his house,
which was outside the square and better than the rest, but we remained
at a safe distance until he went in and sent the children away,
“because,” said he, “children got heap of mouths, and would tell that
you were here.” We entered the house, and retired with our clothes on,
in the bed just vacated by the man and wife.
The plantation was owned by A. R. Taylor, and our good friend was the
driver. He was very intelligent, having travelled all over the country
with his master. He fully understood the danger he was in, and that if
we were found in his house he would hang to the nearest tree, but he
laughed at it and said, “Negroes were cheap now, and one would not be
missed.” We remained in bed all day, locked in our room, the man and
his wife going away to work. We had a cold lunch, and before starting
at night they made us a nice soup.
We began our journey soon after sunset. The night was clear, the moon
shining brightly. Our friend went with us to the Lexington turnpike,
and giving us directions left us with many good wishes for our success.
We tramped along without speaking, and made very good time. Our road
lay through the town of Lexington, and we intended to go around it,
but, like all other southern towns, it has no outskirts, and before we
knew it we were in its centre. Lights were burning in several houses,
and we could hear talking, but pushed on and were safely through. On
the other side we met a negro, who gave us valuable information. We
walked all night. The country was so open that when daylight came we
could find no place to hide, and as a last resort went into a barn, and
covering ourselves with hay, were soon fast asleep; but our slumbers
were disturbed by an old man who came in to feed the cattle, and for
their fodder took our covering. He had two dogs that jumped upon us.
It looked as though our march to freedom was ended, but we drove
away the dogs and began to talk with the old man. One of the many
resolutions we had made at the beginning of our journey was that we
would not be recaptured by any _one_ man. We had seen two persons
brought back by one man and did not think it appropriate. We had
provided ourselves with stout clubs, and it looked as though we should
have a chance to use them. Our friend said, “I can’t hear a word,” and
thinking that he meant he would hear no explanation, we got in position
to use our clubs.
Frank said, “I guess he is deaf.” Then we asked him by signs if he was;
he answered, “Yes.” We then told him that we were conscripts going
to join General Bragg’s army at Augusta, and had lost our way. Frank
wore an old rebel jacket, and it would have been hard to tell by our
clothing what we were. He appeared satisfied, however, and put us on
the road. We had gone but a short distance when we heard the barking of
dogs, and knowing if the bloodhounds were on our track it was good-by
liberty, we entered a brook and travelled up stream several miles to
throw them off the scent, then came out and lay in the woods until
night.
When it came time to resume our journey we could not move, as we were
exhausted with our long tramp of the night before. We had eaten nothing
since we left our colored friend at Taylor’s plantation. We crawled
out of the woods, and seeing a house, dragged ourselves to it. After
waiting a while a negro came out, and we attracted his attention. He
saw our helpless condition, and taking us to an old shed, made a bed on
some husks and brought a quilt from his house to cover us. He then went
for our supper, but returned in haste with a piece of corn-bread and
the information that we must leave at once, as the rebel patrol was at
the house looking for us, having learned from the old man that we were
in the woods. Tired and sore, we returned to the woods and remained
until morning.
Our plan was not to travel by day, but hunger drove us. We moved along
cautiously, and suddenly came upon the cabins of “white trash.” Dogs
of all shapes and sizes welcomed us, and a white woman came out with
several children clinging to her dress. It was hard to tell which
was the most afraid, the woman or we poor wanderers. We asked her if
she could direct us to Boatride’s plantation, one of the places Ben,
the colored man whom we had met near Lexington, had mentioned. She
“reckoned not,” but we reckoned that we could find it and moved along.
This danger proved to us that it was not safe to be seen by daylight,
and we returned to the shelter of the woods. While there a negro boy
came along a path, and when opposite to us we spoke to him. At first
he was frightened, but as we stood up he came to us and said, “You
are Yankees.” We asked him how he knew. He said, “I can tell by the
blue pants;” some rebel soldiers had told him that Yankees wore blue
clothes. We soon became well acquainted, and he promised to bring us
food. He kept his word, and said at night he would come and take us to
his mother’s house. Just after dark he came with another boy, and we
were soon made welcome at his home. They were expecting us, and the
table was set. Roast pork, sweet potatoes, hot biscuits, butter and
plenty of new milk were on the bill of fare. What a feast! To sit in a
chair at a table, and eat with a knife and fork like a human being; we
could hardly believe it was real.
The family consisted of the mother, two daughters and this boy, besides
a baby. The daughters were delighted with us and the mother named the
baby for me, so (if he is alive) there is to-day in South Carolina a
young man thirty-five years old bearing the name of John Gregory Bishop
Adams, besides several others belonging to the boy’s family. They also
said we were the handsomest men they ever saw. Well, we must have been.
I had on the clothes described in a previous chapter, was twenty-three
years old, and, having never shaved, my face was covered with white
hairs an inch long. Frank looked better, but did not wear his party
clothes on this occasion. The old lady said master told them not to
go out after dark because the Yankees would catch them, but wondered
what he would say to see them now. They were owned by a Dr. Vose, and
I should judge he was a kind master. We were not anxious to leave our
good friends, but felt that we must be on our way, so we bade them
good-by, and, guided by the boy, began our night’s march. He went with
us about two miles and gave us in charge of a man who travelled with us
until nearly morning, then hid us in a barn on the plantation of a Mr.
Williams.
The next day was Sunday, and we were on exhibition from morning until
night. We were stowed away in the loft, and our first visitor was a man
with our breakfast. After that a constant line of white eyes could be
seen in the darkness as the procession filed past. The usual salutation
was, “Hello, boss! how has you been?” Then followed all sorts of
questions. One asked if we toted _ambitions_ (meaning arms). We told
him that we had some ambitions left. He said that was good, because we
might have to use it. They asked if we belonged to Mr. Grant’s or Mr.
Sherman’s company; but while they were ignorant of many things, they
were all loyal and ready to do anything for us.
We left the barn at night and ate supper in the field. A negro guided
us several miles, then gave us in charge of two others, who promised
to remain with us until morning. With the negroes as guides we seldom
travelled in the road, for they knew all the short cuts. Our new
acquaintances were not very sharp, as they had had a hard master, but
they rejoiced that the Yankees had killed him. The face of one looked
like a skimmer, for his master had fired a charge of shot into it. They
were very superstitious. Coming to a fence, Frank and I were getting
over in different places, when they pulled us down, and said all must
get over in one place, because there was luck in it. Here we saw a man
crossing a field with a lantern. Calling their attention to it they
said it was not a man, but a Jack-o-lantern going to the graveyard.
When we arrived at the main road our guides left us, as they had never
been so far from home before. We were glad to part with them, yet they
did the best they could.
Following the Pike road until daybreak, we came to a plantation that
answered the description Ben had given us of Boatride’s. He said that
his brother Dick lived there and would help us. We made our way to a
cabin, called up a colored man, and asked him if his name was Dick. He
didn’t know, didn’t know Ben, didn’t know anything that he proposed
to tell, but at last light broke through the clouds. We found he knew
enough, only feared to trust us. He said that colored people had to be
very careful, as all kinds of ways were used to trap them. He hid us in
the barn. The colored women came in, and although they did not speak to
us, left food in abundance where we could get it. The old master came
in twice, but not having been introduced we held our peace.
At night Dick came for us and took us to his house. He had invited his
friends, and the house was full. They sang to us, and, besides giving
us a nice supper, they packed a haversack with bread and meat for us
to take. Being on the main road, we thought it best not to take a
guide, but found travelling quite difficult, as the road was lined with
refugees fleeing from Augusta, and we often had to flank them, which
made our progress slow.
Morning found us about fifteen miles from Augusta. We hunted up a
negro, and using Dick’s name for reference, he put us into the second
story of a barn. We climbed up on a plank which he removed so no one
could get at us, neither could we get out. Through the cracks of the
barn we could see men, single and in companies, going to join General
Bragg’s army at Augusta. The negro said that Sherman was expected
there, and our plan was to get as near as possible, wait until the city
was taken, then enter. One night more and we would be within a few
miles of our destination.
When it became dark our man put up the plank and we came down. We made
about ten miles that night. The settlements were growing thicker and
the roads and woods were full of refugees. We halted at a cabin where
they were having a first-class minstrel show. The negroes were seated
in a circle around the fireplace and the old banjo was a-ringing. We
walked into the room. The music ceased, and they thought the d—l had
come. We explained our position and asked them to care for us. While
they were anxious to do so, they could not make up their minds where
would be a safe place. It was suggested that they hide us in the
cabin. This had two rooms, but the master had locked the door of one
and taken the key. The partitions did not run to the roof. One of the
boys climbed up and pulled up a board so that we could drop down into
the other room. Making a ladder out of stools and negroes, we ascended,
then dropped. We found a bed in the room, and a hole in the bottom of
the door, made for cats to pass in and out; this was used as a dinner
hole, the negroes passing rations through it. We awoke in the morning
much refreshed, but when I looked at Frank I was startled. He was as
black as a negro, and he broke out laughing when he saw me. In reaching
our room we had passed through several years’ collection of soot and
had taken some with us, and, not having a key to the bathroom, were
forced to _keep dark_ all day.
The negro came at night and unlocked the door, having obtained the key
through the house servant. They said, “We are going to take you to see
a white man.” We answered, “Oh, no! we take no stock in white men.”
But they replied, “He is one of you’ns. We talked with him to-day,
asked him if he would like to see a Yankee, and he said he reckoned he
would. Then we told him we had two hid, and he asked us to bring you
to his house.” We had the most perfect confidence in the negroes, and
followed them to a house where we found a true Union man. His name was
L. H. Packard, from Kent’s Hill, Maine. He prepared supper and made us
feel at home. Mr. Packard had lived in the south eight years, had been
married, but his wife was dead, leaving two little girls, one five, the
other seven years of age. His life had not been a happy one since the
war, as he was resolved not to enter the rebel army. He had worked in
a flour-mill and in several other industries, and was now making shoes
for the rebels. He gave me the address of his sister in Maine, and I
promised to write to her if I lived to return home.
He could give us no information in regard to Sherman’s army. Like
ourselves, he had expected they would come to Augusta, but they had
not, and he feared they had gone toward the sea. We remained with him
several hours, and made his heart glad by the news we brought from
God’s country. When we parted he gave us forty dollars in confederate
money, and I gave him a little badge of the 2d corps. He took us to the
trundle-bed where his little girls were sleeping. They awoke and kissed
us good-by. The name of the sister in Maine was Mrs. H. H. Bulen. As
soon as I reached home I wrote to her, sending my photograph.
In the month of October, 1889, two ladies called on me at the State
House; one was Mrs. Bulen, the other her brother’s child, the younger
of the two whom I saw twenty-five years before in a trundle-bed
in South Carolina. My good friend Packard died a few years ago in
this State, having returned north soon after the war. His daughter
remembered seeing us that night, and also remembered the corps badge
which her sister, who resides in Philadelphia, had.
Our friend Packard sent one of the negroes with us as guide, armed
with an old-fashioned horse pistol. He was apparently very brave,
would march in advance of us, and say, “I’d like to see anybody take
you’ns now;” but hearing the least noise, would forget that he was our
protector and fall back in our rear. He was the only armed guide we had
on our journey, and our experience with him was such that we did not
care for more.
We were in doubt what to do, as Sherman, not coming to Augusta, had
forced us to change our plans, but concluded we had better cross the
Savannah River and try to strike him in Georgia. Our guide turned us
over to another, who advised us to remain with him until the next
night, which we did.
After supper, in company with the negro, we started for the river.
He knew all the short cuts through the swamps, also the location of
creeks, and coming to one he would cross on a log, but we, not knowing
in the darkness where to step next, would walk in. Then he would turn
around and say “Creek thar, boss,” a fact we had already learned.
In the distance we heard a strange noise, which grew louder as we
walked along. We asked what it was, and were informed that it was the
shouters; that they were having a shouting meeting on the plantation
where we were going. Arriving at the plantation, we found it a singular
village. The houses were set on posts some eight feet from the ground,
as the river overflows in some seasons of the year. No white people
were there, as it was owned by the man who owned and lived at the place
where we found Mr. Packard, and this swamp plantation was in charge
of the driver named Isaac. Our friend called him out, told him who we
were, and what we wanted; he said, “Come right in,” and turning to the
meeting, of which he was in charge, said, “Meeting dismissed without
prayer.” All gathered around us. We sat up until morning, talking
of the north and of freedom,—subjects they were anxious to hear
about,—and they asked many intelligent questions.
The past few days my feet had been bare,—my old boots not being able
to stand the rough service required of them. An old colored woman
kept her eyes on my feet, and began to untie her shoes; taking them
off, she came to me and said, “Honey, take these shoes.” “Oh, no,” I
replied, “you will not get another pair, and a cold winter is coming.”
“No matter if I don’t,” she said, “ain’t you suffering all this for me,
and hadn’t I ought to go without shoes if they will help you get home?”
and she forced me to take them. They were rudely made, the uppers being
untanned and sewed with rawhide, while the bottoms were pegged on with
homemade pegs, but they did me good service, and I wore them inside the
Union lines three months later. Another gave me a pair of socks, and,
washing my bleeding feet, I was once more comfortable.
We could find no trace of Sherman’s army, and remained with Isaac two
days. We slept in the barn, and were well supplied with food; we also
had plenty of peanuts, as they grew on this plantation, and were called
“ground peas.” At night the negroes held another meeting, and at their
request I read the Bible to them. My scripture lesson was the third
chapter of John. They asked me to pray, but I excused myself. I never
attended a meeting where all were so earnest. The singing was grand.
They sang one song where all shake hands, and the words were, “My
brother, ain’t you mighty glad you’re going to leave this sinful army,”
etc. They kept time with their feet and hands, closed their eyes, and
swayed from side to side as they sang.
The next day we decided that it was best to cross the river. The rebels
had cut holes in all the boats, and sunk them; but the negroes were
sharp, and had taken them up, repaired them and sunk them again, so all
they had to do was turn the water out and they were as good as new.
We embarked just as night was closing in, a negro taking the paddle.
The entire inhabitants followed us to the shore and knelt in prayer for
our success; no cheers were given, but with hats, aprons and bandannas,
they waved their farewells. They remained until they saw us safely
landed on the Georgia shore, and we felt that we had parted with dear
friends. Our boatman secreted his boat and guided us to the turnpike.
We travelled without interruption for about two hours. The moon was
very bright, and all was quiet save the sound of our own footsteps.
We had just crossed a bridge when we heard horsemen approaching, so
dropped by the roadside, under the shadow of a tree. We did not dare
breathe as the five rebel cavalrymen rode past. Renewing our journey,
we soon saw a fire by the roadside, and creeping up to it saw a rebel
picket on duty, his three comrades sleeping by the fire.
Thinking it dangerous to go on, we turned up a lane and found a negro,
who secreted us. From him we learned that the roads were all picketed,
and that the mounted patrols were constantly riding up and down. Danger
was on every hand, but we still had faith. We remained with the negro
through the day, and at night started again; we could not travel in
the road, as the pickets were very thick, but made our way slowly
through the woods. Arriving at a plantation, we found the negroes much
excited. One of the girls started for the mansion, saying she was going
to tell master. We caught her and told her she must take care of us,
but she would not talk, and turned back to the house, where all the
colored people were gathered. We followed and walked in. I was the
spokesman and told our story. They asked if we came through the yard.
We said we did; they could not see how we got through, as ten rebel
cavalrymen were sleeping on the piazza. While we were talking a white
woman appeared. She was quite good-looking, had long, curly hair, and
her dress was clean and becoming. She said, “I will take care of you;”
we thanked her, but said we didn’t care to trust a white woman. This
pleased the negroes, as she was a slave and a field-hand besides.
The story she told us the next day was a sad one. The overseer of the
plantation was a brute, but had charge of all the slaves. She was
employed in the house and he desired to make her his mistress, but she
repelled his advances and was severely whipped; again he urged her,
with no better results. He then drove her to the swamps to work, and
she was employed carrying heavy logs on her shoulders. This was one
of the damnable features of slavery. Her brother, named Pat, was the
driver. (I have several times used the word _driver_, and some may not
understand its meaning. The driver is an intelligent, faithful slave,
selected by the overseer as foreman. He turns out the slaves in the
morning by blowing a horn, gives them their tasks, and has charge of
them in the field.) She took us to his house, which was better than the
rest, and we slept in the room with Pat and his wife.
We were awakened in the morning by the firing of cannon, and the
negroes came rushing in with the news that Sherman was coming. The
firing grew nearer and nearer, musketry could be plainly heard, and
through the cracks in the logs of the house we could see smoke where
barns were burning. The negroes grew more and more excited and reported
often. “They are coming, boss, they are coming. Massa Sherman’s company
will soon be here! They done burn old Sam Jones’s barn, and they are
fighting down by the creek; fo’ night you will be with them.”
Our hearts beat hard and fast. Wheeler’s rebel cavalry were forming,
and after advancing, fell back. We were sure that night would find
us safe under the old flag. We congratulated ourselves on our good
judgment, talked of the foolishness of those who had tried to escape
through the mountains, when our plan was so much easier, and concluded
that of all the men who had escaped we were a little the smartest.
Night came on. The negroes said they would not cross the creek until
after dark, and we waited. All night these faithful negroes kept watch
for us, and in the morning, with long, sad faces, reported that “Massa
Sherman had done gone down the river.” We could not follow by day, but
started quite early in the evening. We had gone but a short distance
when we struck a company of cavalry camped on the roadside. We entered
the swamp to flank them, but it was so dark that we lost our way, and
after travelling all night, tearing our clothes and scratching our
faces and hands, we came out where we entered, and again passed the day
at Pat’s house. We were rather discouraged, and the colored people felt
about as badly as we did, yet did all they could to cheer us up. Our
friend, the white slave, made us gingerbread and biscuit to take with
us, and said many comforting words.
With a firm resolution to get through the lines we began our journey.
It was a dark, rainy night, and we had to guess our route. We came to a
place where the road forked. Frank was sure he knew the road we ought
to take, and I was just as confident that he was wrong. We scolded
each other for an hour, not daring to speak above a whisper. These
cat-fights occurred nearly every night, and we made up in the daytime.
One not in our place might think it strange that we should lose our
temper, but we were strained up to the highest point, and were nervous
and irritable. It was the same with nearly all who escaped. I have
known two men who were fast friends who were never the same after they
were recaptured. Not so with Frank and I. He was such a dear, good
fellow that he gave in to me nearly every time.
Finding we were on the wrong road we struck across the country and
came upon a nice cabin near a large house. We were listening under the
window, and could hear the hum of a spinning-wheel. As we stood there a
woman opened the shutter and, as the day was just breaking, she saw us.
We entered the house and found a yellow man in bed. He said, “Go away
from here.” We told him who we were, but he would do nothing for us. We
had our clubs, were in good fighting condition and holding them over
him made him swear that he would not tell he had seen us. The woman was
friendly and gave us directions how to reach the creek, but we dare not
take the road, fearing the yellow fellow would forget his promise. This
was the first instance where a man with a drop of negro blood in his
veins had refused to help us. We turned into the woods, but they were
so thin that we were forced to cut down small pine trees and stick them
in the ground where we lay down. It was so cold we could not sleep,
and as we dare not travel through this open country, we kept alive by
rolling over and over on the ground. Besides being cold we suffered for
food, as we had eaten nothing since the previous day. We could endure
it no longer, and late in the afternoon resumed our tramp. Calling at
a cabin, a negro baked the last morsel of meal he had in the house for
us, and after we had eaten it, directed us to the creek. Here we found
a new trouble. Kilpatrick’s cavalry had burned the bridge, and we had
“one wide river to cross.”
We made a raft out of pieces of plank, and went over all right. Frank
was on the forward end of the raft; as we reached the opposite bank he
caught a grape-vine and swung himself on shore. He left the raft and so
did I, the only difference being that he was safe on land while I went
into the water and came up under the raft. He fished me out, and with
my clothes nearly frozen on me we continued our journey. Arriving at an
old mill we called up the miller. He let us in, but was afraid to keep
us, as the rebel pickets were very near, and liable to come there at
any time, so we must keep in the woods. I was too wet to lie down, so
we ran along in the edge of the woods. We saw places where Sherman’s
army had camped only the day before, and the fires were still smoking.
As we were running along we saw a negro coming towards us on horseback.
Driven by hunger, we hailed him and asked for food. He said he was
going to mill, but would return in about an hour and would take us to a
place where he could feed us.
We waited until he returned, when he told us to keep him in sight and
follow along in the woods; we had gone only a short distance when he
began to whoop and put his horse into a gallop. What was up we could
not make out until, looking towards a shanty, we saw a rebel soldier
walking towards us on crutches. He came near and said, “Come out,
boys, and have a talk.” We looked at each other, then at the Johnnie
Reb. There were two of us with two clubs, and, so far as we could
see, only one rebel, and he a cripple; so we came out. The negro came
riding back, and we asked him what it meant. He looked frightened, but
said, “I know this man; his father raised me. He fought, but he never
wanted to fought.” The rebel said it was not safe to stay there, but
designated a place where he could meet us; he mounted the horse behind
the negro, and we went through the woods.
Arriving at the place designated, we saw our Johnnie jumping and coming
all sorts of gymnastic performances. We demanded an explanation; he
said, “I am as sound a man as there is in the Confederacy. I was
slightly wounded at Atlanta, and was sent to guard your boys at
Andersonville. I saw them starved to death and swore that if ever
I could help one get away I would. Now is my chance, and I’ll be
dog-goned if I don’t do it.” He was a typical rebel in every respect,
a regular Georgia cracker; hair long, high cheek bones, tall and slim,
but he talked well and appeared earnest. After the negro had turned out
the horse he came to us and he and the rebel talked over the situation.
The trouble was what to do with us now we were with them. Johnnie
suggested taking us home; the negro said it would not do, as his wife’s
sister would betray us; but Enos (his name was Enos Sapp) said the
Yankees had her husband a prisoner and he reckoned she would be mighty
glad if some one would help him. They talked over all the chances of
the rebels finding us. We listened with much interest.
At last Enos said, “Gentlemen, I am going to take you to my house; it
may make a row, but I am boss of my own ranch.” Being in his hands, we
could do nothing but go with him. The house was only a short distance
off. Enos walked on his crutches. He said if the war lasted thirty
years he should use them until the end. When we arrived we found two
log houses; in one were two women and five children; the other was
the servants’ quarters. Poor as our friend was he owned slaves; one,
the man we had seen in the woods; the other, the man’s mother, a poor
broken-down old woman. He introduced us to the women as two friends of
his. They sat in the corner of the fireplace smoking corn-cob pipes,
and said very little to us, not because they were displeased but
because it would require an effort to talk. We made ourselves at home.
One of the women asked me if I would have a smoke. As I had little
chance to indulge in my favorite habit I gladly accepted her offer.
She took the pipe out of her mouth and handed it to me. That broke the
ice; we talked upon various subjects, mostly of war. Enos’s wife said
the Yanks used them better than their own men, as the rebels took her
best horse and the Yanks left the old one. They didn’t seem to know or
care what army we belonged to. Supper was announced and we went outside
to the other house. I suppose this was the dining hall. The table was
set, but there was not a whole plate on it or two pieces alike. The old
colored woman waited on the table, poured the tea and passed the food.
Our host was a religious man and asked a blessing at the table, but
he had a hard time carving the pork and remarked that it was tough as
h—. After the vesper meal we returned to the mansion. The pipes were
the first thing, and as they all wanted to smoke, they fixed up a new
one for me. Enos then told them who we were, and we saw indications of
fear on their faces. The sister, whose husband was in a Yankee prison,
asked if we knew Sam. We could not recall him, but without doubt had
met him, and assured her that wherever Sam was, if in a Union prison he
had enough to eat, a good bed and all the comforts of life, more than
he would have at home. They questioned us about our Yankee women. They
said they had heard that they wore good clothes and had jewelry; we
told them they had been rightly informed, and they said, “Why, you all
have no slaves; where do they get them?” Our answer was that our women
worked. We told them of the mills in Lowell and Lawrence, of the shoe
shops in Lynn, and other places where women were employed. “Well,” they
said, “we would like nice dresses and jewelry, but we could not work;
no woman could be a lady and work.” So those poor deluded creatures
were happy in thinking they were ladies, while they wore dirty homespun
dresses, ate hog and corn-bread, and smoked pipes in the chimney corner.
When it came bedtime Frank and I were puzzled what to do. The rain came
down in torrents and we had been so wet and cold, besides being very
tired, we thought it best to remain over night, but there were only two
beds in the room and eight people for them; where did we come in? One
of the women got up and from under one of the beds brought out an old
quilt and a blanket; she said we could make a “shake-down” before the
fire. We were glad of that, for we had had no chance to skirmish since
we started, and there _were too many of us_ for a bed. The women went
behind a curtain that was let down in front of the beds, undressed the
children, tucked two in one bed and three in the other; the man and
wife slept with two, the sister with three.
Both of us could not sleep at once, so we divided the watch; neither
slept much. After they thought we were asleep the wife said to Enos, “I
don’t like this; I feels sort of jubus. If my uncle knew these men were
here they would hang you before morning.” “Don’t care a d—n,” said
Enos; “I said that I would help them and I shall do it; what did they
all do for you when I was fighting? Not a thing; I tell you this is a
rich man’s war and a poor man’s fight. I have got my eyes open.” After
that we felt safe and went to sleep. We turned out the next morning
feeling much refreshed, but the rain continued to fall and we could not
travel, although every hour was precious to us.
Frank made the women happy. They had some old shoes that were ripped,
and being a good cobbler, he repaired them. We said if we had some
stock we would make them new ones, and they wanted us to wait until
they got the stock. It rained hard when night came, but we must be on
the road, and the negro was sent with us. We clasped the hand of Enos,
gave him our address, and told him if we could ever be of service
to him not to fail to call. I have never heard from him since, but
remember him kindly as one of the few rebels who gave me a kind word
and treated me like a human being.
We travelled all night. Everything indicated that the army had just
passed over the ground,—fences were gone, barns had been burned, there
was no crowing of the cock in the morning and the grunting hog was a
thing of the past. At daylight, wet to the skin, we halted at a negro
cabin. He welcomed us, but, like everything else, had been “cleaned
out.” He was old and the only one left on the plantation, all the rest
having gone with “Massa Sherman.” Our army had passed the day before,
and he was delighted with them; said they had bands just like the
circuses and guns that they loaded in the morning and fired all day.
After drying our clothes before the fire and cooking an ash-cake he
took us to a barn across the road and covered us with husks. Sherman
was but ten miles away, and we felt confident that this was our last
day in the rebel lines. We planned to leave the road and travel through
the fields. If the pickets halted us, we were to run and let them fire.
We believed that they could not hit us in the darkness, and that the
firing would alarm our pickets, who would protect us.