On a fine day in April, 1862, a passenger-train drew out
from Marietta, Georgia, bound north. Those were not days of
abundant passenger travel in the South, except for those who
wore the butternut uniform and carried muskets, but this
train was well filled, and at Marietta a score of men in
civilian dress had boarded the cars. Soldierly-looking
fellows these were too, not the kind that were likely to
escape long the clutch of the Confederate conscription.
Eight miles north of Marietta the train stopped at the
station of Big Shanty, with the welcome announcement of "Ten
minutes for breakfast." Out from the train, like bees from
the hive, swarmed the hungry passengers, and made their way
with all speed to the lunch-counter, followed more
deliberately by conductor, engineer, and brakesmen. The
demands of the lunch-counter are of universal potency; few
have the hardihood to resist them; that particular train was
emptied in the first of its ten minutes of grace.
Yet breakfast did not seem to appeal to all upon the train.
The Marietta group of civilians left the train with the
others, but instead of seeking the refreshment-room, turned
their steps towards the locomotive. No one noticed them,
though there was a Confederate camp hard by the station,
well filled with raw recruits, and hardly a dozen steps
from the engine a sentinel steadily walked his beat, rifle
on shoulder.
One of the men climbed into the engine. The sentinel paid no
heed to him. Another slipped in between two cars, and pulled
out a coupling-pin. The sentinel failed to observe him. A
group of others climbed quickly into an open box-car. The
sentinel looked at them, and walked serenely on. The last
man of the party now strode rapidly up the platform, nodded
to the one in the locomotive, and swung himself lightly into
the cab. The sentinel turned at the end of his beat and
walked back, just beginning to wonder what all this meant.
Meanwhile famine was being rapidly appeased at the
lunch-counter within, and the not very luxurious display of
food was vanishing like a field of wheat before an army of
locusts.
Suddenly the sharp report of a rifle rung with warning sound
through the air. The drowsy tenants of the camp sprang to
their feet. The conductor hurried, out to the platform. He
had heard something besides the rifle-shot,--the grind of
wheels on the track,--and his eyes opened widely in alarm
and astonishment as he saw that the train was broken in two,
and half of it running away. The passenger-cars stood where
he had left them. The locomotive, with three box-cars, was
flying rapidly up the track. The sentinel, roused to a sense
of the situation only when he saw the train in actual
flight, had somewhat late given the alarm.
The conductor's eyes opened very wide. The engine, under a
full head of steam, was driving up the road. The locomotive
had been stolen! Out from the refreshment-room poured
passengers and trainmen, filled with surprise and chagrin.
What did it mean? What was to be done? There was no other
engine within miles. How should these daring thieves ever be
overtaken? Their capture seemed a forlorn hope.
The conductor, wild with alarm and dreading reprimand,
started up the track on foot, running as fast as his legs
could carry him. A railroad mechanic named Murphy kept him
company. To one with a love of humor it would have been an
amusing sight to see two men on foot chasing a locomotive,
but just then Conductor Fuller was not troubled about the
opinion of men of humor; his one thought was to overtake his
runaway locomotive, and he would have crawled after it if no
better way appeared.
Fortune comes to him who pursues her, not to him who waits
her coming. The brace of locomotive chasers had not run down
their strength before they were lucky enough to spy a
hand-car, standing beside the track. Here was a gleam of
hope. In a minute or two they had lifted it upon the rails.
Springing within it, they applied themselves to the levers,
and away they went at a more promising rate of speed.
For a mile or two all went on swimmingly. Then sudden
disaster came. The car struck a broken rail and was hurled
headlong from the track, sending its occupants flying into
the muddy roadside ditch. This was enough to discourage
anybody with less go in him than Conductor Fuller. But in a
moment he was on his feet, trying his limbs. No bones were
broken. A mud-bath was the full measure of his misfortune.
Murphy was equally sound. The car was none the worse. With
scarce a minute's delay they sprang to it, righted it, and
with some strong tugging lifted it upon the track. With very
few minutes' delay they were away again, somewhat more
cautiously than before, and sharply on the lookout for
further gifts of broken rails from the runaways ahead.
Leaving the pair of pursuers to their seemingly hopeless
task, we must return to the score of locomotive pirates.
These men who had done such strange work at Big Shanty were
by no means what they seemed. They were clad in the
butternut gray and the slouch hats of the Confederacy, but
their ordinary attire was the blue uniform of the Union
army. They were, in truth, a party of daring scouts, who had
stealthily made their way south in disguise, their purpose
being to steal a train, burn the bridges behind them as they
fled, and thus make useless for a time the only railroad by
which the Confederate authorities could send troops to
Chattanooga, then threatened by the Union forces under
General Mitchel.
They had been remarkably successful, as we have seen, at the
beginning of their enterprise. Making their way, by devious
routes, to Marietta, they had gathered at that place,
boarded a train, and started north. The rush of passengers
and trainmen into the refreshment-room at Big Shanty had
been calculated upon. The presence of a Confederate camp at
that out-of-the-way station had not been. It might have
proved fatal to their enterprise but for the stolid
stupidity of the sentinel. But that peril had been met and
passed. They were safely away. Exhilaration filled their
souls. All was safe behind; all seemed safe ahead.
True, there was one peril close at hand. Beside the track
ran that slender wire, a resting-place, it seemed, for
passing birds. In that outstretching wire their most
imminent danger lurked. Fast as they might go, it could
flash the news of their exploit a thousand-fold faster. The
flight of the lightning news-bearer must be stopped. The
train was halted a mile or two from the town, the pole
climbed, the wire cut. Danger from this source was at an
end. Halting long enough to tear up the rail to whose
absence Conductor Fuller owed his somersault, they sprang to
their places again and the runaway train sped blithely on.
Several times they stopped for wood and water. When any
questions were asked they were answered by the companion of
the engineer, James J. Andrews by name, a Union spy by
profession, the originator of and leader in this daring
enterprise.
"I am taking a train-load of powder to General Beauregard,"
was his stereotyped answer, as he pointed to the closed
box-cars behind him, within one of which lay concealed the
bulk of his confederates.
For some time they went swimmingly on, without delay or
difficulty. Yet trouble was in the air, ill-fortune awaiting
them in front, pursuing them from behind. They had, by the
fatality of unlucky chance, chosen the wrong day for their
work. Yesterday they would have found a clear track; to-day
the road ahead was blocked with trains, hurrying swiftly
southward.
At Kingston, thirty miles from Big Shanty, this trouble came
upon them in a rush. A local train was to pass at that
point. Andrews was well aware of this, and drew his train
upon the siding to let it pass, expecting when it had gone
to find the road clear to Chattanooga. The train came in on
time, halted, and on its last car was seen waving the red
danger-flag, the railroad signal that another train was
following close behind. Andrews looked at this with no
friendly eyes.
"How comes it," he asked the conductor, somewhat sharply,
"that the road is blocked in this manner, when I have orders
to take this powder to Beauregard without delay?"
"Mitchel has taken Huntsville," answered the conductor.
"They say he is coming to Chattanooga. We are getting
everything out of there as quickly as we can."
This looked serious. How many trains might there be in the
rear? A badly-blocked road meant ruin to their enterprise
and possibly death to themselves. They waited with intense
anxiety, each minute of delay seeming to stretch almost into
an hour. The next train came. They watched it pass with
hopeful eyes. Ah! upon its rear floated that fatal red flag,
the crimson emblem of death, as it seemed to them.
The next train came. Still the red flag! Still hope
deferred, danger coming near! An hour of frightful anxiety
passed. It was torture to those upon the engine. It was
agony to those in the box-car, who knew nothing of the cause
of this frightful delay, and to whom life itself must have
seemed to have stopped.
Andrews had to cast off every appearance of anxiety and to
feign easy indifference, for the station people were showing
somewhat too much curiosity about this train, whose crew
were strangers, and concerning which the telegraph had sent
them no advices. The practised spy was full of resources,
but their searching questions taxed him for satisfying
answers.
At length, after more than an hour's delay, the blockade was
broken. A train passed destitute of the red flag. The relief
was great. They had waited at that station like men with the
hangman's rope upon their necks. Now the track to
Chattanooga was clear and success seemed assured. The train
began to move. It slowly gathered speed. Up went hope in the
hearts of those upon the engine. New life flowed in the
veins of those within the car as they heard the grinding
sound on the rails beneath them, and felt the motion of
their prison upon wheels.
Yet perilous possibilities were in their rear. Their delay
at Kingston had been threateningly long. They must guard
against pursuit. Stopping the train, and seizing their
tools, they sprang out to tear up a rail. Suddenly, as they
worked at this, a sound met their ears that almost caused
them to drop their tools in dismay. It was the far-off bugle
blast of a locomotive whistle sounding from the direction
from which they had come.
The Confederates, then, were on their track! They had failed
to distance pursuit! The delay at Kingston had given their
enemies the needed time! Nervous with alarm, they worked
like giants. The rail yielded slightly. It bent. A few
minutes more and it would be torn from its fastenings. A few
minutes! Not a minute could be spared for this vital work.
For just then the whistle shrieked again, now close at hand,
the rattle of wheels could be heard in the distance, and
round a curve behind them came a locomotive speeding up the
road with what seemed frantic haste, and filled with armed
men, who shouted in triumph at sight of the dismayed
fugitives. It was too late to finish their work. Nothing
remained to the raiders but to spring to their engine and
cars and fly for life.
We have seen the beginnings of this pursuit. We must now go
back to trace the doings of the forlorn-hope of pursuers,
Fuller and his companion. After their adventure with the
broken rail, that brace of worthies pushed on in their
hand-car till the station of Etowah was reached. Here, by
good fortune for them, an engine stood with steam up, ready
for the road. Fuller viewed it with eyes of hope. The game,
he felt, was in his hands. For he knew, what the raiders had
not known, that the road in advance would be blocked that
day with special trains, and on a one-tracked road special
trains are an impassable obstacle.
There were soldiers at Etowah. Fuller's story of the daring
trick of the Yankees gave him plenty of volunteers. He
filled the locomotive and its cab with eager allies, and
drove on at the greatest speed of which his engine was
capable, hoping to overtake the fugitives at Kingston. He
reached that place; they were not there. Hurried questions
taught him that they were barely gone, with very few minutes
the start. Away he went again, sending his alarm whistle far
down the road in his front.
The race was now one for life or death. Andrews and his men
well knew what would be their fate if they were caught. They
dared not stop and fight; their only arms were revolvers,
and they were outnumbered by their armed foes. Their only
hope lay in flight. Away they went; on came their shouting
pursuers. Over the track thundered both locomotives at
frightful speed. The partly-raised rail proved no obstacle
to the pursuers. They were over it with a jolt and a jump,
and away on the smooth track ahead.
If the fugitives could have halted long enough to tear up a
rail or burn a bridge all might have been well; but that
would take more minutes than they had to spare. A shrewd
idea came into Andrews's fertile mind. The three box-cars
behind him were a useless load. One of them might be
usefully spared. The rear car of the train was uncoupled and
left behind, with the hope that the pursuers might
unwittingly dash into it and be wrecked. On they went,
leaving a car standing on the track.
Fortunately for the Confederates, they saw the obstruction
in time to prepare for it. Their engine was slowed up, and
the car caught and pushed before it. Andrews tried the
device a second time, another car being dropped. It was
picked up by Fuller in the same manner as before. On
reaching a siding at Resaca station, the Confederate
engineer switched off these supernumerary cars, and pushed
ahead again relieved of his load.
Not far beyond was a bridge which the raiders had intended
to destroy. It could not be done. The pursuit was too sharp.
They dashed on over its creaking planks, having time for
nothing but headlong flight. The race was a remarkably even
one, the engines proving to be closely matched in speed.
Fuller, despite all his efforts, failed to overtake the
fugitives, but he was resolved to push them so sharply that
they would have no time to damage track or bridges, or take
on wood or water. In the latter necessity Andrews got the
better of him. His men knocked out the end of the one
box-car they had left, and dropped the ties with which it
was loaded one by one upon the track, delaying the pursuers
sufficiently to enable them to take on some fresh fuel.
Onward again went the chase, mile after mile, over a rough
track, at a frightful speed, the people along the route
looking on with wondering eyes. It seemed marvellous that
the engines could cling to those unevenly-laid rails. The
escape of the pursuers, was, indeed, almost miraculous, for
Andrews found time to stop just beyond a curve and lay a
loose rail on the track, and Fuller's engine ran upon this
at full speed. There came a terrific jolt; the engine seemed
to leap into the air; but by a marvellous chance it lighted
again on the rails and ran on unharmed. Had it missed the
track not a man on it would have lived to tell the tale.
The position of the fugitives was now desperate. Some of
them wished to leave the engine, reverse its valves, and
send it back at full speed to meet the foe. Others suggested
that they should face the enemy and fight for their lives.
Andrews was not ready to accept either of these plans. He
decided to go on and do the work for which they had set out,
if possible. He knew the road. There was a covered bridge a
few miles ahead. If they could burn this all would be well.
He determined to try.
There was one box-car left. That might serve his purpose. He
had his men pile wood on its floor, and light this with
coals from the engine. In a minute it was burning. The
draught made by the rushing train soon blew the fire into a
roaring flame. By the time the bridge was reached the whole
car was in a fierce blaze.
Andrews slowed up and uncoupled this blazing car on the
bridge. He stopped the engine just beyond, and he and his
companions watched it hopefully. The flames curled fiercely
upward. Dense smoke poured out at each end of the covered
bridge. Success seemed to be at length in their hands. But
the flames failed to do their work. The roof of the bridge
had been soaked by recent rains and resisted the blazing
heat. The roaring flames were uselessly licking the wet
timbers when the pursuing engine came dashing up. Fuller did
not hesitate for a minute. He had the heart of a soldier in
the frame of a conductor. Into the blinding smoke his engine
was daringly driven, and in a minute it had caught the
blazing car and was pushing it forward. A minute more and it
rolled into the open air, and the bridge was saved. Its
timbers had stubbornly refused to burn.
This ended the hopes of the fugitives. They had exhausted
their means of checking pursuit. Their wood had been all
consumed in this fruitless effort; their steam was rapidly
going down; they had played their last card and lost the
game. The men sprang from the slowed-up engine. The engineer
reversed its valves and followed them. Into the fields they
rushed and ran in all directions, their only hope being now
in their own powers of flight. As they sped away the engines
met, but without damage. The steam in the stolen engine had
so fallen that it was incapable of doing harm. The other
engine had been stopped, and the pursuers were springing
agilely to the ground, and hurrying into the fields in hot
chase.
Pursuit through field and forest was as keen and
unrelenting as it had been over iron rails. The Union lines
were not far distant, yet not a man of the fugitives
succeeded in reaching them. The alarm spread with great
rapidity; the whole surrounding country was up in pursuit;
and before that day ended several of the daring raiders were
prisoners in Confederate hands. The others buried themselves
in woods and swamps, lived on roots and berries, and
ventured from their hiding-places only at night. Yet they
were hunted with unwearying persistence, and by the end of a
week all but two had been captured. These two had so
successfully eluded pursuit that they fancied themselves out
of danger, and became somewhat careless in consequence. As a
result, in a few days more they, too, fell into the hands of
their foes.
A court-martial was convened. The attempt had been so
daring, and so nearly successful, the injury intended so
great, and the whole affair so threatening, that the
Confederate military authorities could not think of
leniency. Andrews and seven of his companions were condemned
to death and hung. Their graves may be seen to-day in the
Soldiers' Cemetery at Chattanooga, monuments to one of the
most daring and reckless enterprises in the history of the
Civil War. The others were imprisoned.