His house at Flat Woods attacked by Eighty
Soldiers.—Wounded.—Miraculous Escape.—Captain Bolin.—Arrival in
Green County, Arkansas.
In April, 1862, after we had lived at Flat Woods during six months
of perfect tranquility, that same irrepressible Vigilance Committee,
or some men who had composed it, learned finally that I was living
at Flat Woods. Firman McIlvaine and Joe McGahan succeeded in getting
eighty soldiers from Ironton to aid in my capture. I had been hauling
wood; as soon as I unloaded the wagon I stepped into the house, and
the first thing I knew, the eighty soldiers and the vigilantees were
within gunshot and coming under full charge. I seized my gun and
dashed through a gap in their lines that Heaven had again left open
for my escape. They commenced firing upon me as soon as I was out of
the house. The brush being very thick not far off, I saw that my only
chance was to gain the woods, and that as soon as possible. I ran
through the garden and jumped over a picket fence—this stopped the
cavalry for a moment. I made through the brush; but out of the hundreds
of bullets sent after me, one struck my leg below the knee and broke
a bone. I held up by the bushes as well as I could, to keep them from
knowing that I was wounded. While they had to stop to throw down a
fence, I scrambled along about two hundred yards further, and crouched
in a gully that happened to be half full of leaves; I quickly buried
myself completely from sight. The soldiers were all around in a short
time and scoured the woods in every direction; then they went back and
burned the house and everything we had, after which they left and I saw
them no more.
Sixteen of Captain Bolin‘s men on the day before had been seen to
cross the gravel road; this, probably, was why the federal soldiers
did not remain longer. Captain Bolin was a brave rebel officer, whose
headquarters were in Green county, Arkansas, and under whose command
some of the most daring spirits who figured in the war, were led on to
deeds of heroism scarcely ever equaled.
Our condition was truly deplorable; there I lay in the gully covered
up with leaves, with one leg rendered useless, without even the
consolation of being allowed to groan; my family, too, were again
without shelter; the soldiers had burned everything—clothes, bedding
and provisions.
As I lay in that gully, suffering with my wounds inflicted by United
States soldiers, I declared war. I determined to fight it out with
them, and by the assistance of my faithful gun, “Kill-devil,” to
destroy as many of my blood-thirsty enemies as I possibly could. To
submit to further wrong from their hands would be an insult to the
Being who gave me the power of resistance.
After the soldiers had left, my wife came in search of me, believing
that I was wounded from the manner in which I seemed to run. I told
her to go back, that I was not hurt very bad, and that when she was
satisfied that no one was watching around, to come at night and dress
my leg. She went, however, in search of some friend on whom we could
rely for assistance. Fortunately she came across Mr. Pigg, to whom
she related the whole circumstance, and he came immediately to my
relief. He was a man of the right stripe; regardless of consequences,
he did everything in his power to relieve my suffering, and to supply
my family with bedding and provisions. He removed us by night to a
place of safety, and liberally gave us all we needed. While I thus lay
nursing my wound, my place of concealment was known only to a few men
whom we could easily trust.
In my hours of loneliness I had much time for reflection. The terrible
strait in which I found myself, naturally led me to the mental inquiry:
“Have I the brand of Cain, that the hands of men should be turned
against me? What have I done to merit the persecution so cruel and
so persistent?” I could not solve the questions; in the sight of a
just God I felt that I did not merit such treatment. Sometimes I half
resolved to go into some other State on purpose to avoid the war; but
I was constantly warned by my friends who were southern men, (the only
men with whom I could hold communication at present,) that it would be
unsafe to think of doing so, and that my only safety lay in my flight
to the southern army. The vigilance mob had nearly destroyed every
vestige of sympathy or good feeling I had for the union people. They
had reported me, both to the civil and military authorities, as being
a horse thief, and, withal, a very dangerous man.
On thinking the matter over I lost all hope of ever being able to
reinstate myself in their favor and being permitted to enjoy the
peaceful privileges of a quiet citizen. The die was cast—for the sake
of revenge, I pronounced myself a Rebel.
I remained very quietly at my place of concealment while my wife
doctored my wounded leg for a week before my friend had an opportunity
of sending word to any of Captain Bolin‘s men to come to my relief. As
soon as my case was made known to them, however, a man was dispatched
to see me for the purpose of learning all the particulars in the case.
He came and asked me a great many questions, but answered none. When he
arose to depart he only said, “all right—rest easy.”
The next night I was placed in a light spring wagon among some boxes
of drugs and medicines, and was told that my wife and family would be
taken to Bloomfield by Captain Bolin in a short time, and protected
until I could come after them. A guard of two men accompanied us, and
rode the whole night without speaking a word to any one. Nearly the
whole route was through the woods, and although the driver was very
watchful and used every precaution against making a noise, yet in
the darkness of the night I was tumbled about among the boxes pretty
roughly.
When daylight came we halted in a desolate looking country, inhabited
only by wild animals of the forest. We had traveled down on the
western side of St. Francois river, and were now camped near the most
western bend on that river near the southern line of Madison county;
we remained all day at that point, and I spent most of my time in
sleeping. When the sun had dipped behind the western hills we again
commenced our journey. Our course seemed to bear more to the eastward
than it did the night before, and as we were then in a country not so
badly infested with Federals, we traveled a good part of our time in
narrow, crooked roads, but they were rough beyond all description, and
I was extremely glad when about eight o‘clock in the morning we halted
for breakfast on the western bank of St. Francois river, about midway
between Bloomfield, in Stoddard county, and Crane creek, in Butler.
While resting here a scouting party from General Jeff. Thompson‘s camp
came riding up.
“Well boys! what have you in your wagon?”
“Drugs and medicines for Captain Bolin‘s camp.”
On hearing this they dismounted and kept up a lively conversation
around the camp fire. Among their number was a jovial fellow who kept
the rest all laughing. I thought I knew the voice, and as I turned over
to peep through a hole in the wagon bed, he heard me and sprang to his
feet.
“Who in thunderation have you in the wagon?”
“Some fellow from St. Francois county, wounded and driven off by the
Federals.”
“The devil! why that is my native county. I‘ll take a look at that
fellow. It‘s Sam Hildebrand as I live! How do you do, old rapscallion?”
“Well, well, if I haven‘t run across Tom Haile, the dare-devil of the
swamps!”
“Old ‘drugs and medicines‘ what are you doing here? trying to pass
yourself off for a great medicinal root I suppose. Do you feel
tolerable better? I‘m afraid you are poison. Say, Sam, did you bring
some good horses down with you?”
“Hush Tom! if they find out that I‘m not a horse thief, they will drum
me out of camp!”
The party soon prepared to start; the first man who attempted to mount
came near being dashed to the ground in consequence of the rattling
of a tin cup some one had tied to his spur. Tom said it was a perfect
shame to treat any man in that way; the man seemed to think so, too,
judging from the glance he cast at Tom. But they mounted, dashed
through a sheet of muddy water, then over a rocky point, and soon were
far away amid the dim blue hills.
We started on, and after traveling until about midnight, we reached
the State line between Missouri and Arkansas, there we remained until
morning; on starting again we were in Green county, Arkansas, and
sometime during the day we arrived safely at the Headquarters of
Captain Bolin, and I was welcomely received into the little community
of families, who were here assembled for mutual protection—most of them
were the families of Captain Bolin‘s men. I received every attention
from them that my necessities required, and as my wound seemed to be
doing well, I felt for a time quite at home.