_Worse Than War_.
The members of our party were Bill and Jack Evans, Curly Smith, Mose
Cunningham of Camden Point, and one of his neighbors, whose name
I do not now recall, Wall Brinton and myself. Our horses were in
good condition, and, though the war was over, we supplied ourselves
well with arms and ammunition and it was well we did, for in all my
experiences, I never suffered such hardships or came so near losing
my life as on this journey home after the war was over. We traveled a
long distance, as it seemed then, and met with no difficulty except
lack of food. Homes in that country were few and far between and when
we chanced upon a house no one was at home but half starved, ragged
women and children. They had little to offer us and lived themselves
by taking their dogs to the woods and chasing game or wild hogs which
had gone through the winter and were unfit for food. They always
offered to divide, but we did not have the heart to accept their
offer, and lived on such game as we could kill as we traveled along.
We always gave these women such encouragement as we could, told them
the war was over and they might soon expect their husbands and sons to
return to them. We did not say if they were still alive, but we and
they sadly understood always that such a condition might well have
been added.
I do not recall how we got across the Arkansas River, but I do
remember that in the heavy timber on this side we came upon nine
men in camp who claimed to be "bushwhackers." They invited us to
join them and as we were tired and hungry we did so. We rested the
remainder of the day and at night they told us there was to be a
dance--frolic--in the neighborhood and invited us to go. We did so and
witnessed a dance in truly Arkansas style. I took no part, but enjoyed
looking on at the others. When we reached camp late in the night we
all spread our blankets down around the fire and slept, feeling the
greatest security. Next morning three of their men and three of our
horses were gone. We said nothing, but cooked and ate our breakfasts
and went back to the cane-brake to make further search for the horses.
We hunted until noon, but could not find them. We returned to the camp
where the six remaining members of the party were and got dinner.
After dinner at a given signal we drew our navies and made them
disarm, which they did with much more haste than "bushwhackers" would
have done. We then asked them to tell where our horses were. Three
of the six proved to be really our friends and knew nothing about
the horses. The other three were in with the men who had gone. The
missing horses belonged to Mose Cunningham, Wall Brinton and myself.
They told us various stories. One said that my horse had been taken
by the son of a widow woman who lived seven miles east. Others said
the horses had been taken to Fort Smith, twenty miles west. We settled
the matter by saddling three of their horses and riding away. We rode
the remainder of the day and until two o'clock in the night without
anything to eat. About this hour we came upon a house and roused the
inmates and told them we must have provisions. We got a ham, some
flour, sugar and coffee and started on. By nine o'clock next morning
we had gotten far up into the rugged, mountainous country where it
seemed safe to stop. We dismounted and cooked breakfast, but took the
precaution to send two men back on the mountain to keep watch. I had
eaten my breakfast, saddled my horse and was ready to go. The other
boys were taking more time. I reminded them that we might be followed
and that they had better make haste. I had scarcely uttered the words
when the boys on the lookout came running down the mountain and before
they reached the camp a company of soldiers appeared at the crest.
They commenced throwing hot lead down at us, and we returned it and
kept it up until the boys got into camp and grabbed up a handful of
provisions. I made a breastworks of my horse and stood and shot across
my saddle until the horse fell at my feet. By that time our guns were
empty, and without time to reload we ran to the mountains, leaving
everything but our guns and the clothes upon our backs.
It was disheartening to think that, tired and hungry as we were, we
could not have peace long enough to cook and eat the poor provisions
secured at the farm house the night before, and it was still more
disheartening to reflect upon where the next meal was to be found.
In spite of this we still had much to be thankful for. Although left
on foot and without provisions, we still had our lives and plenty of
powder and lead, and, in those days when human life was so cheap,
these were our greatest concern.
The party attacking did not follow us into the brush on the mountain
side. We had all the advantage there and were desperate enough to
have used it to any extent and without much conscience, had occasion
required. Our little party was scattered, each man taking care of
himself. Some kept moving up the mountain while some crouched like
hunted quails in what appeared to be safe hiding places. In a little
while our pursuers gathered up our horses and the fragments of
provisions we had left and started away. After a long wait the boys
began to signal each other and shortly we were united.
It was a long and weary trudge to Fayetteville. We were compelled to
keep near the main traveled road, (which was little better than a
bridle path), because the country was so rough and the timber so heavy
that we feared we might lose our way. Our only food was the game we
killed--squirrels and wild turkey and now and then a deer. This we
dressed and broiled over a camp fire and ate without bread or salt.
Hard as this method of subsistence was, it had at least one advantage
over an army march--we had plenty of time. The bare ground had been
our resting place so long that we were quite accustomed to it, and
even, without the luxury of a blanket, we slept and rested much.
At Fayetteville we got the first square meal since leaving the camp on
the Arkansas River, and, as it was by no means safe to remain there,
we secured such provisions as we could carry, and started on, still
on foot. Above Fayetteville the country became less mountainous and,
although we always slept in the timber, we found little trouble in
securing food. We crossed Cowskin River and made our way to Granby,
where the lead mines were located. In a little valley shortly out of
Granby we found a drove of poor, thin horses. They had fared badly
during the winter, but looked as though they might be able to help us
along somewhat, so we peeled hickory bark and made halters and each
man caught himself a horse. We had not gone far when we discovered
that riding barebacked on the skeleton of a horse was a poor
substitute for walking, so we turned our horses loose and continued
the journey on foot.
Johnstown, a small town in Bates County, is the next point, I remember
distinctly. A company of militia was stationed there and all the
people in the country round-about were colonized in and near the town.
Although we knew the militia were there, we took our chances on going
quite near the town, for we were compelled to have food. Late in the
afternoon we stopped at a house in the outskirts of the town and
found the man and his family at home. The man belonged to the militia
company, so we held him until the family cooked supper for us. After
we had eaten we started on, taking the man with us to prevent him
from reporting on us, advising his family at the same time that if we
were pursued it would be because some of them had informed on us and
in that event the man would never return. They were glad enough to
promise anything that would give them hope of his return, and we felt
quite sure we would not be discovered from that source.
We left the house between five and six o'clock and had not gone far
when we saw three militia men who had been out on a scout, riding
toward us. When they came within a hundred yards or so the leader
called on us to halt. He asked, "Who are you?" Wall Brinton replied,
but I do not recall what he said. The leader evidently did not believe
him for he replied by telling us to consider ourselves under arrest.
This was, under our circumstances, equivalent to opening hostilities,
so we replied with our navies. One horse fell with the man on him.
The other two hastily assisted the rider to mount behind one of them.
They galloped back and took another road toward the town. We hurried
on to a thick grove of timber some distance ahead where we could
secure protection against the attack that we felt sure would later
be made upon us. As the news of our presence had now gone back to
headquarters, our prisoner could be of no more service, so we turned
him loose. We reached the timber and waited and watched, but, for some
reason, no attempt was made to capture us. Darkness soon came on and
we lost no time in making our escape. At daylight next morning we were
at Little Grand River, fifteen miles north.
Shortly after we left our hiding place in the timber near Johnstown,
it began to rain and rained on us all night long as we journeyed.
Little Grand River was running nearly bank full, but we had to cross.
We made a raft by binding logs together with hickory bark, placed
the guns and clothing upon it and pushed out, each man holding on at
the rear, swimming and pushing. We were soon across and as it seemed
to be a wild, uninhabited spot, we built a fire and warmed ourselves
and dried our clothing, and all got a little sleep, one man always
standing guard. About ten o'clock I grew restless and uneasy and
awakened the boys and told them we had better move on, as that company
of militia might start early in the morning to follow us and, if they
did so, they might be expected to appear at any time. Wall Brinton,
our captain, agreed to this and we made another start, although some
of the boys opposed it and said we had as well be killed as run
ourselves to death.
We traveled westwardly, up the river, about two miles and then north
to the bluffs where we found what appeared to be sufficient protection
in the timber and hills to warrant a stop for further rest. It was
a beautiful day after the rain the night before and we lay in the
warm sunshine and slept as well as hungry men could sleep. We peeled
slippery elm bark and ate it, but it did little to satisfy our hunger.
Late in the afternoon, Curly Smith, Wall Brinton and I were chewing
upon our elm bark and six of our boys were fast asleep, when a company
of soldiers rode up in twenty yards of us before we saw them. Smith
saw them first and said to me, "Who is that?" I sprang to my feet,
turning around as I did so. I knew them at a glance and knew also
that we were in trouble. There was no time to plan--no time even to
run--and six of the nine of us fast asleep. My first thought was to
wake the boys so I called out at the top of my voice, "Who are you?"
They gave no answer, but opened fire upon us. Brinton, Smith and I
each took a tree and let them come on. It was a desperate situation
and every load in the brace of six-shooters we carried must be made
to count. When they were close enough for our work to be effective,
we began on them. From the way they dropped out of their saddles I
am sure very few of our bullets went astray. The captain kept urging
his men on, calling "Give them hell, boys!" and we kept busy. The
captain himself galloped up within two rods of me, threw his saber
around his head and ordered me to surrender. I had, as I thought,
just one shot left. I put it through his heart. I saw it twist, as
it seemed, through his coat, and I shall never forget the writhing
of his body and the dreadful frown as he fell from his horse. Most
of them who were left had now exhausted the loads in their guns,
and when they saw their captain fall retreated. We whirled and ran
with all our might. The boys who had been asleep were gone. They had
awakened and started at the first volley. A short run brought us in
sight of the other boys who were at the moment trying to pass around
a long, narrow slough, which lay between them and timber on the other
side. Brinton's right arm was broken between the wrist and elbow. He
had received the wound as he threw his arm from behind the tree to
shoot. It was bleeding badly, but we kept running and calling to our
companions to turn and fight. They paid no attention to us, but kept
on around the slough. During this time the men who attacked us had
rallied and were riding down upon us. Brinton kept calling and urging
the boys to turn and fight, and finally as our pursuers drew closer
they turned and fired, and this checked the men who were after us for
a moment. By this time poor Wall had grown weak and sick from loss
of blood and could go no farther. We had been running side by side.
The last words he said to me were, "I am sick, I can't go on. I will
have to surrender. Make your escape if you can." Such a thing seemed
impossible at the moment, but I feared nothing so much as the "mercy"
of the men who were after us. Wall threw up his well arm and I ran
as fast as I could toward the slough or lake and plunged right in.
The brush and vines on the other side were my only hope, aside from
the discovery I made as I ran that I had one more load in my navy.
Our enemies, except one man, took after the boys who were running
around the lake. As I waded in water nearly waist deep the man who had
followed me rode up to the edge of the lake and ordered me to halt. I
paid no attention to him but waded on, watching him all the time. He
rode out into the water, raised his gun as if to shoot and called the
second time. I stopped and turned and leveled the muzzle of my navy at
his belt and fired. He fell off his horse into the water. When I got
across I looked back and saw him struggling to keep his head out of
the water. I do not know what became of him. I foresaw when he came up
and rode into the lake that he or I would be doing that very thing,
and I felt that the chance load left in my navy was, as it proved to
be, my only protection against it. The fight was still going on up
the lake. I looked and saw Jack Evans down in the water and heard him
calling for help. The other boys were just wading out. I ran to them
and as I came up I saw blood streaming from the leg of one of the men.
He had been shot in the thigh, but was still able to walk.
We soon got out of sight in the thick brush and they did not follow
us. Including the man who remained with us, four of our men had been
wounded in the fight. Three of them, Wall Brinton, Jack Evans and
one of the Platte County boys, were compelled to surrender, and we
learned that all of them, wounded prisoners though they were, were
shot in cold blood. We never knew how many of their men were killed
and wounded.
We hurried on through the brush back toward the river, and when we
reached it we found a log for our wounded man and all swam across
to the south side. After traveling a few miles down the river we
crossed in the same manner and made directly north. Just before dark
we came to an abandoned log house and stopped. We were in a pitiable
condition. No food since the night before, tired and wet, depressed
in spirits by the loss of our comrades, whom we knew had already been
killed, and with a wounded man upon our hands. To remain there so
close to the men who were after us meant that we would be captured and
killed.
We talked the matter over. The wounded man, whose name I do not
recall, in company with his brother, fell in with us at the Arkansas
River. He was so weak and was suffering so much that he could go no
farther, so he and his brother decided to remain at the cabin through
the night and trust to the mercy of some one whom they might find next
day to give them assistance and shield them from the soldiers who
had pursued us from Johnstown. They agreed that the four of us who
were uninjured would not be so apt to secure sympathy and that we had
better move on.
It was a sad farewell that we bade our wounded companion and his
brother that night, and it was, for me at least, a farewell indeed,
for I have never seen or heard from them since, but it seemed the
best and only thing that could be done. As soon as it was dark we
started and traveled all night, though very slowly, and until late in
the afternoon of the day following. At that time we came near a small
place, the name of which I do not now remember. We went up close to
the town and stopped at a house. Two men in blue clothes were there
with the family and we immediately took charge of them and ordered
supper. They prepared a splendid meal for us and we ate it as only
men can eat who have gone forty-eight hours without food. It was a
cool evening and they had a small fire in an old-fashioned fire-place.
After supper we asked them to spread some bed clothes before the fire
and three of us lay down and slept while the fourth stood guard over
the men. We took turns standing guard through the night and next
morning ordered an early breakfast and left as soon as it was daylight.
We started north, and as soon as we got out of sight of the house
turned east a short distance and then went back south about a mile
to a high knoll covered with black jack. We lay there all day and
watched the maneuvers of the blue coats. They scoured the country
to the north far and near, but never approached the knoll on which
we were hidden. We had a fine rest after our two good meals, and we
needed it following the events of the past two days. When night came
and everything got still we came down and went to the same house for
supper. The men had not returned from hunting us, and the women were
much surprised to see us. They gave us a good supper and we bade them
goodby and started north, listening all the time for approaching
horses from either direction. We had no difficulty, and by morning
were well out of the way.
The next place I remember was in Jackson County near Independence. As
we were worn out, ragged and almost barefooted, and as the war was
over, we decided to see the provost marshal and get a pass on which we
could travel on to our homes in safety. I went to a good Union man's
house and told him what I wanted. He promised to see the marshal for
me, and I directed him where to find us. Upon his return he said the
pass would be provided. Next morning they sent a small company of
soldiers out and we saw that we had been deceived. They looked us over
carefully and talked pretty saucy, but did not harm us. We looked so
shabby that they evidently thought we did not amount to much. They
put us in a two-horse wagon and took us to Warrensburg, forty miles
farther from home. There we were placed in a guard-house where we were
kept two or three days, without telling us what their plans were. One
morning a guard came and took one of our men--a mere boy--down to
headquarters and quizzed him to find out if he knew anything about
the fight on Little Grand River. He denied it. Then they came and got
one of the other boys, but he managed also to convince them that we
had been together--just the four of us--since we left the south. This
seemed to satisfy them for they did not call on me, but we were not
released.
The day following a guard came and marched us out to the edge of
town and set us to work hoeing in a garden, with a negro woman for a
boss. I called her "aunty," and cut up as many beans and peas as I
did weeds. I kept my "boss" busy showing me how, and she got precious
little work out of me. I began to suspect they were trying to connect
us with the Grand River affair, and feared they might get some one
who would identify us or pretend to do so, and I did not like the
prospect, so I made up my mind I would leave them some how and go home
without a pass. The guard-house was a brick building that had been a
dwelling. A water tank stood out in the yard and the prisoners all
went there for water. Four men stood guard day and night, and it was
customary at six o'clock to turn the men in and lock them up. On the
evening that I decided to escape I managed to hide in a pile of lumber
that lay in the yard near the water tank, and when the guards put the
men in and locked the doors they did not miss me. I lay very still
until late at night. I could hear the guard pass on his beat and by
the time required to pass me and return I could judge the length of
his beat. When I thought it safe to make my dash I watched and after
he had passed south, I waited until he had gone, as well as I could
estimate, to the end of his beat, then I leaped across his path so
quickly that he did not have time to think, much less shoot. I ran
down a dark alley and had no trouble in reaching the outskirts of
the town. I took across the fields, not knowing where I was going,
nor caring much, just so I was getting away. I had been gone but a
little while when I heard the town bell ring and knew the alarm had
been turned in. Then I heard horses galloping out, as I supposed,
on every road from town. I heard the horses gallop across a bridge
some distance from town, and concluded I would cross no bridges that
night. I moved cautiously on, and by and by came to a creek somewhat
in the direction I had heard horses cross the bridge. I followed the
creek, watching all the time for bridges and after a while came to a
foot-log. I crossed and made my way out of the thick brush and stopped
to get my bearings. It was a starlight night. I located the north star
and took it for my guide and traveled all night.
When daylight came I found myself in a creek bottom and in a body of
very large timber. I found a large, hollow sycamore with a hole in the
side reaching down to the ground large enough to admit me. I sat back
into that tree to get a little rest and possibly a little sleep. I
watched and listened. A good while after sun up I saw a man going with
a yoke of cattle toward a field, which I could see through the timber,
to plow. Two big, savage looking dogs were following him. The dogs
raised their heads and came toward me as though they scented me and I
made sure I would be discovered, but they turned in another direction
before they got very near and did not disturb me. I sat there all day
and, in spite of my hunger, slept and rested. When night came I made
another start as soon as I could see the north star. I traveled all
night and when morning came I still had but little idea where I was. I
went up on a high hill which was covered with brush and from which I
could see all about me. Everything was quiet, so I lay down and slept.
I awoke about ten o'clock and saw a stage-coach loaded with passengers
passing along a road below me. This was the first information I had
that I was near a public road. I remained in the brush awhile and
then decided to move along cautiously by daylight. I saw a house now
and then and, though terribly hungry, I did not dare approach it and
ask for food. Toward night I reached the rugged hills, from which I
judged I must be near the Missouri River. Just before dark I found
an empty tobacco barn and crawled into it and remained throughout
the night. This was the third night with two days intervening--sixty
hours--in which I had not tasted food, and I was worn out with my long
tramp besides.
I did not sleep well that night. My accommodations were very poor and
my gnawing appetite, made me wakeful. I had one comfort, however,
I was well hidden, and this reflection rewarded me for much of my
suffering. Since this trip home I have had a warm sympathy for all
hunted beasts.
When day began to dawn I commenced observing my situation without. I
saw a house near by and watched it for an hour. I could only see two
women, and from the way they attended the work outside as well as in
the house, I concluded there were no men about the place and that it
would be safe for me to venture up and ask for something to eat, and,
if I got into trouble, trust my legs, the only weapons I had, to get
me out. I went up cautiously and found what I could not discover from
my hiding place, that one was an old lady and the other a girl just
grown. I spoke to the old lady and told her my famished condition. She
said she was sorry for me, but she had orders to feed nobody on either
side and that she could not disobey them without getting into trouble
herself. I told her the war was over and that I was trying to get
home. I had tried to quit fighting when I left Price on Red River, but
had had greater difficulty in keeping myself from being killed since
I quit fighting than before. She still refused to give me anything.
Finally, my entreaties won the girl. She spoke up and said, "Mother, I
have made no promises. You have kept your promise and have refused him
food. I will give him something to eat." With that she told me to draw
my chair to the table and she began to set such a meal before me as I
had not tasted in years, it seemed. Cold boiled ham, light bread, milk
and butter, preserves, honey, cake and pie--plenty of all, and rations
I had not heard of in months. I will not attempt to describe how
ravenously I ate. I was probably as shabby looking a mortal as ever
sat down to a meal at a civilized table. My hair and beard were long
and had not been combed for days. I had not washed my face since I
escaped from the guard-house. My clothes--what was left of them--were,
with walking through mud and rain, wading lakes and sloughs and
swimming rivers, soiled and grimy beyond description. When I had
finished eating the girl asked me if I would take a lunch along with
me. Of course I told her I would, and that I would always be grateful
to her, and I have kept my promise. I have many times remembered that
kindness and thanked that young lady over and over a thousand times in
my heart.
I took my package and bade the girl and her mother goodby and started
for the woods. I soon reached level ground and heavy timber and knew
I was in the river bottom. I went cautiously along until I saw the
river in the distance. Then I selected a good shade and lay down and
had a fine rest after my good meal. I awoke some time along in the
afternoon. Everything was quiet--no sound of human foot or voice. I
ate my lunch and went down to the river bank to select a good crossing
place. I found a place that suited me. Then I prepared three logs and
brought them to the water's edge and tied them firmly together with
hickory bark which I peeled from the saplings near by. I found in a
drift close at hand a clap-board suitable for an oar, and my craft
was ready to sail. I might have made the crossing in daylight without
being molested, but, not knowing what I might encounter on the other
shore, I decided to wait for night.
As soon as it began to grow dark I went down and pushed my raft into
the water and tied it to the root of a tree. I then got astride of it
with feet and legs up to the knees in the water to see if it would
bear my weight. It appeared to be sufficiently strong, so with my
clap-board in my hand I cut loose. The current caught me and took me
rapidly down stream, but I was sure if I kept using my paddle it would
have sufficient effect to land me on the other side some time. It soon
grew very dark, so that I could not see the shore on either side, and
I could not tell I was moving except by the water running past my feet
and legs. After what seemed a very long time, and after I had grown
very tired both with my labor and my position on the raft, I felt my
feet strike the sand. I got up and towed the raft to shore and pulled
it up on dry land. Then I took a rest and planned. I might be on an
island and in that case I would have further need for my raft. I could
only ascertain my position by investigating, so when sufficiently
rested I started on across the land, breaking the top of a bush
every few steps to guide me back in case I should find myself upon
an island. I soon came to a slough which I waded without difficulty
and passed on. A little farther on I came to another slough, which I
also waded. The ground under my feet seemed to grow firmer as I walked
away from this slough. I passed into a body of good sized timber and
finally I came to a wagon road, and I knew then that I was on the
main land and the Missouri River which had given me so much trouble
during the four preceding years was again behind me. My little raft
might rest and I should have no need to retrace my steps by the broken
bushes.
I had no idea what time of night it was. I was tired and wet, but with
all that, felt much better than on the preceding night when so hungry.
I thought it must be twenty miles or more to where my sister lived
in the northeast portion of Clay County, so I again took the north
star for my guide and set out, bearing west somewhat when I found
traveling that way agreeable, but never east. I paid no attention to
roads unless they led in my direction. When daylight came I was at a
loss to know where I was. I saw a house in the distance and went up
near it. No one was up, so I sat down to wait. In a little while a
girl came out to a wood pile and began picking up chips. I went up and
asked her how far it was to Greenville. She said one mile. I asked her
which direction and she pointed east. I thanked her and started in the
direction she pointed. I was no sooner out of sight than I turned my
course due north, for I was then in less than two miles of my sister's
home. I arrived shortly after sun up, and as I went into her house
and sat down to a good breakfast, I felt that my troubles ought to be
fairly over, now that the war had closed; but my terrible experiences
on the way home caused me to doubt whether I could go back and live in
peace, even if there was no war.
I remained with my sister a day or two, never showing myself in
daylight, for I learned from her that now since fear of southern
soldiers was over, all those who were too cowardly to go to the front
but had remained at home and robbed and harassed old men and women and
children, were giving the community more trouble than at any time
during the war. They were all very brave then and organized companies
and marched and drilled and galloped over the roads, seeking all
manner of pretenses to rob and kill those who had sympathized with
the south. Returning Confederate soldiers, were, in those first days
after the close of the war, in greater danger than when in the front
of battle, as my own recent experience had shown, and I was not alone,
for my sister told me of a number of soldiers who had returned from
the south only to be killed after reaching home.
I was sure I would find much the same condition in Buchanan County
that I had encountered all along my route home, and I did not like the
prospect that lay before me.
I learned from my sister that Trav. Turner, a neighbor of hers,
was at St. Joseph fitting up a freight train for Salt Lake. I knew
Turner well. He had carried food to Brother James and me while we
lay in the brush waiting to hear the fate of Charley Pullins who was
captured when we were all overtaken at the home of Reuben Eastin in
that neighborhood, and I knew, if I could reach him, I would have no
difficulty in getting away from the country. Something had to be done.
If I should be discovered at the home of my sister it would give the
"yard dogs," as those brave murderers of that community were called, a
pretext for robbing her and probably for killing her husband or some
of her family. We decided upon a plan. I shaved very clean and parted
my long hair in the middle, put on one of my sister's dresses and
both of us put on sunbonnets. We got in a buggy and started for Saint
Joseph. We passed right through old Haynesville, the center of all
the patriotic parading of the "yard dogs," on through Plattsburg and
reached the home of Jack Elder, a half mile from my old home, where
we stayed all night. Next morning we drove on to Saint Joseph and took
dinner with my brother, Isaac. I remember this incident particularly
for the family had company for dinner. I was introduced as a Clay
County friend of Mrs. Wilson's and sat down at the same table, and the
visitors did not suspect me through my disguise. After dinner we drove
to the ferry at the foot of Francis Street and drove on. The boat
was crowded and they had to place our buggy in line in order to make
room for others. Two men took hold of the buggy to lift it around. My
sister said, "Wait and we will get out." The men said, "No, sit still
_ladies_, we can lift it with you in it." We sat still, and crossed
over. On reaching the other side we drove out through the woods and
found Turner's camp. Passing on beyond and out of sight, I removed my
disguise, after which we returned to the camp and I bade my sister
goodby.