AN ACCOUNT
OF THE
ESCAPE OF SIX FEDERAL SOLDIERS
FROM PRISON AT DANVILLE, VA.:
THEIR TRAVELS BY NIGHT
THROUGH
THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY TO THE UNION PICKETS
AT GAULEY BRIDGE, WEST VIRGINIA,
IN THE WINTER OF 1863-64.
BY
W. H. NEWLIN,
_Lieutenant Seventy-Third Illinois Volunteers_.
CINCINNATI:
WESTERN METHODIST BOOK CONCERN PRINT.
1887.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870,
BY W. H. NEWLIN,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
PREFACE.
The account contained in these pages was first written in 1866. Its
publication was delayed in the hope that we should learn something of
our two comrades who were left behind. After revising and abridging it
somewhat, it is presented to the reader in its present form. We were
compelled to rely on memory in preserving for publication the incidents
here narrated, as while on our trip we had neither pencil nor paper.
That reliance, however, was not in vain, as the scenes through which
we passed, though here poorly portrayed, are of a character not easily
forgotten. They are indelibly enstamped on the memory, and it seems
each year as it passes renders the recollection of them more vivid and
distinct. It is not needful to state the motives which prompted this
compilation. Much of the same character has been written and published,
but as this differs in one essential particular, at least, from all
that has yet appeared, we hope that fact will form a sufficient excuse
for introducing it to the public.
W. H. N.
This Narrative DULY AUTHENTICATED by SWORN STATEMENTS of Two Comrades
who were on the Escape, is on file in Pension Claim, No. 352,023.
[Illustration: After Seventeen Years Inquiry.]
From all the information ever obtained touching the fate of first
comrade left behind, the _reasonable_ conclusion is that he PERISHED
at or near the place where we left him, his remains being found and
decently buried near Blue Ridge Mountain. Whatever his _fate_ may have
been, it was _self_ decreed. His reasons for preferring to be left
alone were satisfactory to him, and were not _all_ disclosed to us.
One explanation of this last rather singular circumstance may be found
in the fact that the comrade was an Englishman, and had been in this
country but a few weeks before enlisting.
How much we should like to see the old "darky" to whom we said, "Put
your ear to the string-hole," and on his compliance with the request
we pronounced the word "_Yankees_." (See page 60.) "I'll git my
trowserloons on."
In the case of leaving the second comrade, as described on pages
72-76, there was no option or time for deliberation. The exigencies of
the hour compelled a separation. Mr. Tripp succeeded in escaping the
notice of our pursuers, though hid in their immediate vicinity, and
hearing their talk enumerating reasons for their failure to "_take us
in_." After several days and nights of wandering and hiding, and of
varied and interesting experience, Mr. Tripp was recaptured, sent to
Richmond, kept there until September, 1864, was paroled, exchanged, and
discharged. He is now living near Burlington, Kansas.
John F. Wood died June 20, 1864, "of wounds received in action."
Referring to this, Sutherland, in a letter written not long since,
says: "What a pity Wood had to die so soon after escaping prison. But
he might have died a slow and miserable death at Andersonville had he
not escaped."
Sutherland is living in Michigan, near Eagle Station. Smith resides
at Dundee, same state. Mr. Smith very narrowly escaped drowning at
Craig's Creek. Mr. Sutherland's opportune landing on the opposite bank
of the rushing stream barely in time to extend to Smith a helping hand
is all that saved him. In addition to all others, we had the perils by
"_Bogus Yankees_" to encounter or avoid. We _risked_ our lives to save
them, and saving them we _risked_ them again and again for our country.
Having been captured in our third battle, by escaping, at least two of
us, added to the three, thirteen more. But all this was better than
Andersonville. We _might_ have been numbered among the MARTYRS of the
nineteenth century. "I would not make that trip again," said Smith,
"for the whole state of Michigan," adding "unless I had to."
DANVILLE, ILL., November 27, 1885. W. H. N.
INTRODUCTION.
In those "stirring times," during the late war, when powder, and ball,
and the bayonet were the orders of the day, an escape from prison
and a secret, hidden march through the Confederacy, was accounted an
exciting, as well as a very lucky event. Even at this day, accounts of
such are not stale, but possess a thrilling interest, especially to
those who participated in them and to their friends. Our journey over
mountain and valley, over hill and dale, and across rivers, branches,
and rivulets almost innumerable, was accomplished mostly in the night
time.
We had neither map nor compass to guide us. The north star alone served
us in shaping our course, and very often it was concealed by ominous
clouds. We took many needless steps, and made many needless and weary
miles in consequence of lack of knowledge of the country and of the
course we were steering. Sometimes the desolate hour of Winter's
midnight found us far from the public highway, and almost inextricably
involved in the brush and tangled mazes of the forest. At such times,
being almost at our wit's end, we would try to advance on a "bee line"
until the open country or some road was reached.
At one time, when much bewildered in the shadowy woods, in night
time, we began to despair of success. We sat down to contemplate our
condition and our cheerless prospect. Had an enemy been approaching
us we could have well-nigh welcomed him, so he brought deliverance.
At length the stillness and thick darkness of the night made our
loneliness oppressive, and we groped on. Soon we found a road, and
realized that the "darkest hour is just before day."
Knoxville, East Tennessee, was the point at which we first aimed, but
on nearing the line of the East Tennessee and Virginia Railroad we
learned Longstreet's forces were in Bull's Gap. We then bore northward.
On first setting out on our trip we were extremely cautious. During
the first nights and days, after starting, we talked only in whispers.
We passed houses with the utmost care, as dogs were at almost every
house, and their acuteness in discovering our presence was astonishing,
in view of the caution we exercised. Early in our trip, one night near
eleven o'clock, as we were nearing a house, a dog barked savagely at
us. Instantly the front door opened, and by the light of a fire in the
fire-place we saw a woman in her night clothing, watching us pass.
Late one night, after midnight, we met a citizen on the road. He was
on horseback, moving slowly along. He gave the road, at the same time
checking his horse slightly. When he had passed by, the way he made
his horse scamper was lively, to say the least. "He must be after the
doctor, the way he goes," observed Trippe. "He took sick mi'ty sudden,"
rejoined Wood. "The sight of us at this time is enough to make him
sick," put in a third. We were walking in Indian file, and had our
blankets drawn loosely over our shoulders and dragging almost on the
ground. Doubtless we were scary looking objects, especially as Smith
had his bed-quilt hung over him. Thinking the man had possibly gone for
re-enforcements with which to "gobble" us, we hurried forward.
The night of our discovery of the cavalry horses, being much wearied,
and feeling we were going to be "hard pressed" for food, we climbed
into a corn field to hunt for corn that might have been left on the
stalks. Each of our party followed two rows across the field and two
back, but not a "nubbin" could be found. Not finding a grain of corn on
two dozen rows, and the corn blades being also gone, we concluded, as
Taylor observed, "They gather their nubbins clean in the Confederacy."
"Yes," added Wood, "they can't hold out much longer."
Another night, at a late hour, after Taylor and Trippe had fallen by
the way, when in Craig or Alleghany county, we reached a point where
the road we were traveling crossed a pike. On reaching the pike we
halted, and a disagreement arose among us as to the course we should
take. We quarreled, words ran high, and we seemed to have forgotten
our safety depended on secrecy, as there was no lack of emphasis in
what we had to say. At last Sutherland ended the dispute by saying
to me, "Let's go on." We started immediately, leaving Smith and Wood
muttering. For more than an hour we steadily pursued our course, when,
discovering it was nearly day, we halted in the woods, near the road
side, to see if our comrades were coming up. Soon they came along the
road, and one of them said, "They'd better not advance too far without
support." "Yes," said Sutherland, "we are waiting for the reserves to
come up." Soon after we were hid for the day.
The Union people, the hardy mountaineers of Virginia, or those of them
with whom we came in contact, rendered us valuable assistance. Without
their aid, indeed, and the aid of the negroes, we could hardly have
escaped through the almost barren country of the enemy, especially in
the inclement season. We have heard from David Hepler, James Huffman,
and Mrs. Mann since the war closed. In a letter from Hepler, received
not long since, he says: "I have not forgotten the time I came to you
in the woods and found you all asleep."
We copy one of Huffman's letters in part. It was dated November 11,
1867: "As to information concerning your fellow-prisoner that was lost
the evening you came to my house, it was not the Botetourt Guards that
fired on your squad. It was the furnace company. I saw a lady, living
near the furnace, who saw the men returning. They said they neither
killed nor captured any of your squad. As to Paxton, he is living yet;
so are the people that had the boy hid under the bed."
Our latest information respecting Trippe is a report that he was
recaptured, taken back, and shot as an example. Of Taylor, nothing has
ever been heard, by us at least, and our painful conjecture is that he
never reached the lines. Of our three comrades who reached the lines,
Smith and Sutherland are living in Michigan, and Wood is supposed to
be a resident of the Key-stone State. Smith, of the Fourth Michigan
Cavalry, was present at the capture of the Confederate President,
Jefferson Davis.
A STORY OF THE WAR.
CHAPTER I.
CAPTURE--PRISON AT RICHMOND--AT DANVILLE--SMALL-POX--HOSPITAL
AND CONVALESCENT CAMP--WARD-MASTER AND NURSES--ESCAPE PROM
THE GUARDS--TRAIN OF CARS--FOILED AT SEVEN-MILE FERRY--NARROW
ESCAPE--HIDING IN CAROLINA--CROSSING DAN RIVER--SINGING AND
DANCING--EATING AT MIDNIGHT--SABBATH DAY RETREAT--PROVISION
EXHAUSTED--EFFORT TO PROCURE SUPPLIES--ITS FAILURE--HARD
MARCHING--HUNGER AT MIDNIGHT--HIDING PLACE--WASHINGTON'S
BIRTHDAY--SLEEP.
The writer hereof was among the prisoners captured by the enemy in
the battle of Chickamauga, Georgia, September 20, 1863. Others of the
regiment to which I belonged also fell into the enemy's hands. As we
had served together through all the vicissitudes of a soldier's life in
the camp, on the march, and in battle, we resolved to remain together,
and stand by each other as prisoners as long as circumstances would
permit. On the day after the battle, September 21st, we were placed
on board the cars at Tunnel Hill, and sent under a strong guard, by
a circuitous route, through Georgia and the Carolinas, to Richmond,
Virginia. We arrived in Richmond on September 29th, eight days having
been occupied in the transfer of prisoners from the battle-field.
We remained in Richmond through the month of October, and until
November 14, 1863, when we were removed to Danville, Virginia, which
is south-west of Richmond about one hundred and fifty miles, in
Pittsylvania county. The transfer was by rail, and each member of our
squad succeeded in getting aboard the same car. Near noon of November
15th we reached Danville, and were immediately introduced to our new
quarters. Our squad was allotted a space on the second floor of
Prison No. 2, a large frame building, where it remained unbroken until
December 15, 1863.
A short time previous to this date the small-pox had made its
appearance among the prisoners. On December 14th I was taken sick, the
usual symptoms of small-pox appearing in my case; and on the 15th I
was examined by the Confederate surgeon and sent to the hospital, in
company with three other patients from other prisons in the vicinity.
As I here separate from the six persons with whom I had been associated
since my capture, and with whom so much discomfort and inconvenience
and so many privations had been borne, I here give their names. They
were John Hesser and John North, of Company A, Seventy-Third Illinois
Infantry Volunteers, and James Kilpatrick, of Company B; Enoch P.
Brown, John Thornton, and William Ellis, of Company C. They were all
of the same regiment with myself, and the three last named were of the
same company. The two first named and myself were all of our squad
that lived through the term of imprisonment. My term, however, did
not last as long as that of the others, as the following pages will
show. If my information is correct James Kilpatrick died as a prisoner
under parole early in 1865, at Wilmington, North Carolina. E. P. Brown
and John Thornton died at Andersonville, Georgia, in September, 1864.
Brown died on the first anniversary of his capture, September 20th,
and Thornton died a few days before. William Ellis died at Charleston,
South Carolina, near the close of the year 1864. Hesser and North were
among the last of the Andersonville prisoners that were exchanged and
sent North.
On arriving at the small-pox hospital I was placed on a bunk in Ward
No. 1. I kept in-doors for the space of five or six days, at the end of
which time I was classed among the convalescents. On or about December
22d, three convalescents, of whom I was one, accompanied by only one
guard, went into the woods on the right bank of Dan River, in quest
of persimmons. We went some distance into the country, probably four
miles, and secured a quantity of persimmons, which we distributed to
the patients in Ward No. 1 on our return to it in the evening. While
out on this ramble through the woods, guarded by only one person, I
was favorably impressed with the notion of attempting an escape from
the Confederates at some future time, when strength would permit. The
idea was suggested to my mind by the carelessness of the guard, who
more than once set his gun against trees and wandered some distance
from it.
About Christmas a row of eight wall tents was put up on the hospital
grounds, to be used as quarters for convalescents. I was one of eight
persons assigned to tent No. 1, and, as I was a non-commissioned
officer, the hospital steward placed me in charge of the sixty-four
men occupying the eight tents. It is needless to recite here what
the duties were that belonged to my position, but I discharged them
as faithfully as I could, so as to keep out of the prison-house in
Danville as long as possible.
Sometime in the month of January, 1864, the nurses in each of the
three wards of the hospital escaped from the guards, and started for
our lines. This necessitated another detail of nurses for the wards,
and the detail was made from among the convalescents. The hospital
steward did me the favor to appoint me as ward-master of Ward No.
1, giving me the privilege of selecting those who were to assist me
as nurses in the ward. I selected those with whom I had become most
intimately acquainted as convalescents. Lucien B. Smith, of Company F,
Fourth Michigan Cavalry; William Sutherland, of Company H, Sixteenth
United States Infantry; Watson C. Trippe, of Company H, Fifteenth
United States Infantry, and John F. Wood, of Company G, Twenty-Sixth
Ohio Infantry, were the persons selected. After a short time, Robert
G. Taylor, of Company G, Second Massachusetts Cavalry, was added to
our force of nurses, to make the burden of labor in the ward a little
lighter on us. We attended the patients in Ward No. 1 day after day,
and night after night, as well as we could with the scanty supplies of
medicine and food furnished by the Confederates, until the night of
February 19, 1864. Very many of our fellow-prisoners came under our
care while we were acting the part of nurses. Many of them died, and
we saw their bodies carted away to the burying-ground and deposited in
their last earthly resting places.
By the 12th of February the small-pox had begun to abate. As a
consequence, the convalescent camp and Ward No. 3 were discontinued. A
day or two later and Ward No. 2 was cleared of patients and its doors
closed. Those who had been attending as nurses were returned to prison.
Two weeks, or three at most, could hardly elapse before the hospital
would be entirely broken up. In this event we should be returned to the
dreary prisons in Danville, whence escape was scarcely possible. To
be kept in prison many months, perhaps until death alone should bring
release, was an unwelcome prospect, and we looked upon it with feelings
of dread. We had friends and comrades among the prisoners, whom we
disliked to leave behind us, but as our presence with them could do
neither them nor us any good, we determined to improve the first
opportunity of attempting an escape from the Confederates, and avoid
the prison entirely.
February 19, 1864, was a cool day for lower Virginia, and we would
have deferred our escape for a few nights had we not luckily and
accidentally ascertained that we should be sent into prison on the
morning of the 20th. Our careful, though hasty, preparations for
slipping off from the guards were accordingly commenced just before
dark on the evening of February 19th. Before entering upon the detailed
account of our escape and subsequent trip to the Union lines, it
will be requisite to describe briefly the hospital buildings and
surroundings.
The hospital was situated one mile south-west of Danville, on the right
bank of Dan River. The river runs in a north-east course, consequently
the hospital was on the south of it. There were three wards at the
hospital, each capable of accommodating fifty patients. The wards were
numbered one, two, and three. There were also a cook-house, a steward's
office, and a dead-house. These buildings were constructed of undressed
pine lumber. Ward No. 1 was located on the top of a high round hill;
near its south-east corner, and almost adjoining it was the cook-house.
A few steps north of the ward, and equidistant from its eastern and
western extremities, stood the steward's office. At the west end of
the ward was the dead-house. About one hundred yards south-west of the
dead-house Ward No. 2 was situated, on the hill-side. At the foot of
the hill, nearly one hundred yards south-west of Ward No. 2, stood
Ward No. 3. Directly east of Ward No. 2, and south of Ward No. 1, was
the row of tents which had been used by convalescents. Still further
east, at the foot of the hill, was a considerable branch, coursing its
way northward to Dan River. Just across the branch, on its right bank,
was a large wall tent, in and near which all the clothes washing for
the hospital was done. The persons detailed to do the washing slept
in the tent. The Confederate surgeon in charge of the hospital had
his quarters in Tent No. 1 of the row of tents formerly occupied by
convalescents. His tent was nearest the cook-house and Ward No. 1.
The tent we occupied, when not on duty in the ward, stood just south
of the surgeon's tent, and so near it that the ropes supporting it
interlocked or crossed those which supported the surgeon's tent. In
Ward No. 1 was the receptacle or place of deposit for all clothing
that had been washed. Quite a lot of clothing, belonging in part to
patients in the different wards, but mainly to the unfortunate ones who
had died, was stored away for the use and benefit of those who might
be insufficiently clothed. Wards No. 1 and 3 had been whitewashed, but
Ward No. 2, which had been put up between them, at a subsequent date,
was not.
Near Ward No. 3, at the base of the hill, was a spring of water,
from which the hospital was supplied. Between the wards and other
hospital buildings, and all about over the hill-sides, stood tall and
straight pines. To the north of the hospital, about three-quarters of
a mile distant, was Dan River, with its swift, noisy waters, hedged
in by steep, rugged banks. To the south-east and south were cleared
lands, traversed by a branch and its tributaries. Still farther south
were heavy woods, with one point of timber projecting some distance
northward, into the cleared land toward the hospital.
During the afternoon of February 19th, William Sutherland and myself
were wheeling wood on a wheelbarrow from Ward No. 3 to Ward No. 1.
Having to wheel it up hill it was a wearisome task, and we occasionally
stopped for rest. Near four o'clock in the evening, while resting about
half-way up the hill-side, Sutherland said to me, "It looks to me very
much as if this hospital would be broken up soon." I agreed with him
in his opinion, and remarked that our lease of time at the hospital
was growing short. After a little further conversation, we resolved to
consult with the other nurses on the propriety of attempting an escape,
and get them to set out with us for our lines on the next night.
In less than an hour's time we had finished our task of wheeling wood,
and were resting on our bunks in the tent. Before either of us had
met with our comrades, Smith, who was off duty that evening, came to
us and informed us he had something to tell us that we would not like
to hear. We told him to acquaint us with his news, however unwelcome
it might be. We readily conjectured what it was that so interested
Smith, and our conjecture proved correct. He had overheard some of the
guards in their talking, and had learned that it was the purpose of
the Confederates to send us to prison in the morning. This news did
not surprise us, and we were heartily pleased to learn the intentions
of the Confederates, although they were not of an amicable nature. We
resolved to prevent, if possible, the carrying of these intentions into
effect. Smith was then told of the resolution we had formed an hour
before to set out on the next night for the Union lines. The sun had
already disappeared behind the hills. We knew our fate if we remained
at the hospital until its light should again break forth in the east.
Our purpose to attempt at least, even if we did not succeed, to leave
the hospital, the sick, the Confederate guards, and the Danville
prisons that night was immediately and firmly fixed.
Our preparations were at once commenced. We were obliged to exercise
the utmost caution in all our movements, as a few of the guards were
standing about over the hospital grounds; some of them were in the
cook-house. We wished by no word, or look, or act of ours, to lead them
to suspect our purpose of eluding them and striking for liberty.
Smith left Sutherland and me in the tent and joined Trippe, Taylor, and
Wood, who were on duty in the ward. Smith soon found an opportunity
of conferring with his associates, and telling them of the meditated
escape. Taylor and Wood were anxious to join it, but Trippe, who had
but recently recovered from the small-pox, was distrustful of his
strength; and as he had once before escaped, and got some fifty miles
away, only to be recaptured and brought back, he did not so readily
sanction the project. The nurses who were on duty in the ward now,
assisted by Smith, gave their exclusive attention to the sick; they
were even more attentive than usual. No one would have suspected from
their conduct that they would ever forsake the sick ones under their
care.
Just before dark Sutherland suggested the propriety of determining on
a place of rendezvous for our party after the guards were passed, as
it was certain we could not all pass out at once without being seen.
I stepped outside the tent, and walked leisurely up hill, and stood
near the south end of the cook-house. Directly south of me, about a
mile distant, was a prominent point of timber, projecting northward
from the main body toward the hospital. This point of timber seemed
suitable for the purposes of a rendezvous, and on returning to the
tent I directed Sutherland's attention to it. He concurred with me as
to the fitness of the place for a rendezvous, and went to the ward to
call the attention of Smith, Trippe, Taylor, and Wood to it. As it was
important that our party should fix in the mind the place of rendezvous
before it was too dark to see, those who were engaged in the ward came
out, one at a time, and glanced across at the point of timber. By so
doing misunderstanding and delay, at the critical moment, would be
prevented. While Trippe was out taking a look he noticed two or three
guards approaching him. He walked on down hill in the direction of the
wash-house, as if going after clean bed-clothes or other clothing for
patients.
Near eight o'clock, P. M., Sutherland sought an interview with the
cook, but found the Rebels had not yet left the cook-house for their
own quarters; so he quietly withdrew from the room. The cook--who of
course was one of our own men--followed him to the door and asked if
any thing was wanted. As the Rebels were within hearing, Sutherland
answered, "There is a man in the ward who would like to have a little
soup, but I guess he can get along without it. If he must have some,"
continued Sutherland, "I will come back and let you know."
"All right," answered the cook.
Soon after the guards went to their quarters, which were situated near
the guard line, but little more than a quarter of a mile distant,
south-west of the cook-house. The cook was again sought by Sutherland,
and this time he was found alone, and just ready to retire for the
night. Sutherland lost no time in making his business known to him.
Six haversacks, the best that could be found in the deposit for clean
clothing, were delivered to the cook, who agreed to fill them with the
best provision the cook-house at the time afforded. Sutherland then
busied himself in selecting clothing for our party from the deposit of
clothing that had been washed and stored away. When he had selected the
number of garments required he carried them down to our tent. He and I
then took off the clothing we had long worn, and put on entirely clean
suits. We then went to the ward and relieved our four associates, who
immediately went down to our tent and put on clean suits also. The six
haversacks, which were filled with the best provisions the cook could
provide, were brought to the tent from the cook-house.
Near eleven o'clock, P. M., our arrangements for leaving were about
complete, or as nearly so as was possible with the means at command.
Taylor, Sutherland, and Wood, each had an overcoat and blanket; Smith
had an overcoat and a large bed-quilt. Trippe and I each had a blanket;
we had no overcoats, but we wore an extra shirt and blouse apiece.
For our feet we provided the best shoes that could be found about the
hospital, and took pains to secure long and strong strings for them.
During our attendance in the ward, patients about dying, or near death,
had in several instances presented the nurses with their overcoats.
These overcoats had been sold by the nurses to the guards for
Confederate scrip. In this way we had obtained near two hundred dollars
in scrip to carry with us on our journey. Taylor had a watch which was
in time-keeping order. He also had a canteen. Smith had a half-moon
tin bucket, which held about three quarts. The only knives we had were
made of sheet-iron.
We had watched in the ward, and perfected our arrangements for leaving
by turns, until near midnight. A little after eleven o'clock we waked
up two or three of the stoutest patients in the ward, and told them
our departure was near at hand, and that they must watch in the ward
for us, and keep the lights burning until morning. We then bid them
good-by, cast a last glance over the sick, and closed the door of the
ward behind us for the last time. We repaired immediately to our tent
and completed our final preparations for the trip.
As our tent was near that of the Rebel surgeon we were obliged to carry
on our conversation in a low tone. We put out blankets in a convenient
shape for carrying, and made every thing ready for starting. It was
settled, in the first place, that we should slip out from the hospital
grounds two at a time. Which two should go first was the next question
that came up for decision. Six small sticks were prepared, and we drew
cuts. These sticks were of three different lengths, and the two who
held the short ones were to pass out first. The two who held the sticks
next shortest were to follow in a given time, and the two holding
the longest sticks, in due time, were to bring up the rear. When the
drawing was over Sutherland and I held the short sticks.
As time was precious we placed our haversacks and blankets under our
arms and stepped outside the tent. We stood a moment at the tent door,
listening for the voices or footsteps of the guards. No sound fell upon
our ears save that of the wind blowing through the tops of the tall
pine-trees. On starting we went to the top of the hill and stopped
at the south-east corner of the cook-house, where we again listened
intently, but heard nothing. The moon, which had been shining at
intervals since night-fall, had become partially obscured by floating
vapor clouds. We kept our haversacks and blankets under our arms in
such a shape as to imitate closely a bundle of clothing. We then
walked slowly down the hill toward the wash-house. We followed the
path leading to the wash-house until we reached the branch. Instead of
crossing the branch on the foot-log we turned to our right and went
directly up stream, stepping sometimes on the ice and breaking it. We
kept close to the bluff, and stooped slightly, so that it screened
us from the west. To our left, on the east of the branch, was a flat
or bottom, covered with pine shrubs and other bushes, which hid us
from view in that direction. Unless the sentinel on duty had happened
to be near the branch while we were passing, we could scarcely have
done otherwise than escape unseen. At length we had proceeded, with
much caution, a sufficient distance in the direction of our appointed
rendezvous to feel light-hearted and secure. We pushed forward rapidly,
crossed two rail-fences and gained the shelter of the woods, where we
were to await the coming of Smith and Taylor, who had held the sticks
of medium length at the drawing a few moments before. Sutherland and I
laid our haversacks and blankets aside, and quietly, though anxiously,
awaited their approach.
While waiting, after the anxiety and excitement of the moment had
somewhat subsided, we found the weather quite cold. Our whiskers became
stiff and whitened with frost, and the winds penetrated our clothing.
The moon shone out brightly. The sky was without a cloud. Those which
had partially covered it, only a few moments before, had cleared
entirely away. Our patience was severely tried, as our comrades, so
anxiously expected, had not joined us. On getting quite cold in the
breezes of the wintery midnight, we danced about on our feet, and
extended our arms to quicken the circulation of the blood, and get
ourselves warm. In this manner we passed some two or three minutes,
when we stood still to listen for the coming of Smith and Taylor.
We listened anxiously, but the sound of their welcome footsteps did
not greet our ears. "Can it be that they have been caught?" we asked
ourselves.
"If they have been caught the Rebels will soon miss us, and be on the
alert, searching for us," said Sutherland.
"Perhaps we had better be off then," I answered.
We listened a moment longer, but heard nothing. We then gathered our
haversacks and blankets, and started westward through the woods. We had
gone but a few steps before we heard the noise of persons climbing the
fence. We halted and remained perfectly still, as we were not sure
the rebels were not on our trail. Soon we could distinguish the forms
of two persons in the moonlight. They were moving toward the point of
timber we had just left. We now knew they were Smith and Taylor, and
soon had the pleasure of hearing our names called in low, subdued tones
by their familiar voices. Our whereabouts was soon made known to them,
and they were soon with us. Smith and Taylor wished to know why we had
not stopped in the point of timber, as agreed upon. We told them we had
stopped there, had waited some time for them, and had given them up as
lost, and then started on our journey alone, getting as far as that
before hearing them.
We had not long to wait for Wood and Trippe. They had followed Smith
and Taylor more closely than the latter had followed Sutherland and
myself. When Trippe and Wood had joined us, we introduced ourselves as
Federals, and late nurses at the small-pox hospital near Danville, Va.
As the squads of two each had formed a junction, our party of six was
ready to move.
After adjusting our haversacks and blankets about us, so that we
could easily carry them, we set out through the woods in a westerly
direction. In the woods we found that the snow which had fallen a few
days before had not melted. We disliked to walk on it, as we left a
distinct trail behind. We pushed on, however, and soon struck a wagon
road, from which the snow had either blown off or melted away. It was
not a public road, but was used merely as a timber road, to get out of
the woods with loads of rails and wood. Its surface was very hard and
gravelly, and we followed it a mile or two in a southerly direction
without leaving many distinct foot-prints.
The railroad leading from Danville, Va., to Greensboro, N. C., was soon
reached, and we followed it in a south-west course: we walked on the
ties, and made very good time. Soon we had reached a part of the road
which ran over a high grading. On hearing a distant rumbling noise in
the south, we judged there was a train of cars coming. In a few minutes
more we saw the head-light on the engine as it came around the curve
made necessary by the hills. We quickly slipped down the side of the
grading into the bushes, and watched the train as it passed. But one
person on the train was visible to us, and that was a man standing at
the door of the last car with a lantern in his hand.
On regaining the top of the grade, we resumed our travels, walking on
the ties as before. We followed the railroad until we had gone about
five miles from our starting-point, when we came to a wagon road, which
crossed the railroad at right angles. This road had the appearance of
being much traveled; by turning to our right and following it, we went
north-west--the direction we wished to go. As we passed a house near
the road side, Trippe recognized the place as one he had seen when out
before, making his first attempt to escape. He also knew the road we
were following would lead us to the Seven-mile Ferry. This ferry was
so called from the fact of its being seven miles up Dan River from
Danville. We wished to gain the left or northern bank of Dan River
before daybreak, if possible, and we pushed on eagerly and rapidly.
The road was smooth. Its white sandy surface could be plainly seen.
Dense woods, with thick bushy undergrowth, closely lined it on either
side. The hill leading down to the ferry was at length reached. It was
a long, but not a steep hill. The road as it led us down the hill-side
was meandering in its course.
When we were but little more than half-way down hill, the thought
that there might be a guard at the ferry happened to suggest itself
to Trippe's mind. He proposed that we should retire into the brush
near the road side, and wait until he should go on toward the ferry
and reconnoiter. We assented to this proposal, and went a dozen steps
or more from the road and halted. Trippe went on down hill alone. He
was gone several minutes, a half hour almost it seemed to us in our
restless anxiety and concern. We became impatient for his return, and
quitting our places in the brush, walked down hill on the road. Near
the foot of the hill we saw Trippe slowly retreating from the ferry.
He had seen us, and removing the cap from his head, was excitedly
motioning for us to halt. We stopped immediately, and kept still.
Trippe also stopped, and turned around, looking anxiously toward the
ferry. He looked only for a moment, and then quietly rejoined us where
we had been waiting. He whispered to us, saying, "Let's go back up
hill." We turned about, and walked silently up the road. No word was
spoken until we had reached the hill-top. It was to us a moment of deep
and thrilling interest and expectancy.
[Illustration: "FOILED AT SEVEN-MILE FERRY."--PAGE 20.]
On reaching the upland we halted at the road side, and Trippe reported
the discoveries he had made at the ferry. He had gone very cautiously
down hill, and had soon stood where he could see the river plainly,
and also the ferry-boat. He had stood perfectly still until he had
assured himself that no guard was near. He could see nothing but the
forest-trees, the river, and the ferry-boat, in the light of the
brightly shining moon, which made the frost and waters sparkle. He
could hear no sound, save those of the swiftly running waters, and
these amply sufficed to drown any noise he himself might make. He
turned around and started back to us, to beckon us forward. Almost at
the same instant he heard a noise. Thinking he might have trodden on
a stick and broken it, thus making the noise himself, he proceeded
half a dozen steps further; when, still hearing something, he stopped,
and again looked in the direction of the ferry. A little to the right
of it, in the edge of the woods, he saw the sparks of a fire flying
upward. He watched the fire closely, and it sent up a blaze which shed
light far around. One Butternut cavalryman was first seen to stir the
fire, and then add fuel to it. Soon three others got up from their bed
and warmed themselves. Trippe stood still, and watched them, until
they laid down and covered themselves in their bed. He then silently
withdrew, feeling sure he had not been heard or seen. As he did so,
the horses of the cavalrymen neighed, and pawed the ground, as if
manifesting uneasiness. As we were sure the Confederates were not aware
of our presence, we felt glad we had escaped so well. Our escape was a
narrow one, however; had we arrived at the ferry ten minutes sooner, we
should most certainly have been recaptured.
Our disappointment in not getting across the river at the ferry was
great, as we could make no progress in the direction we wished to go
until we had gained its northern bank. We consulted briefly as to the
course we should pursue; and soon determined to retrace our steps until
we should find another road, or some path that would lead us up the
river. We started. As the weather was cold and morning approaching, we
hurried on. An obscure road, leading off in a south-west direction,
was soon found. We changed our course, and followed it. It led by some
plantation houses. We left the road and houses some distance to our
right, as we did not wish to alarm the dogs and set them to barking.
On returning to the road, we followed it directly up the river until
we had traveled five or six miles, from Seven-mile Ferry. It became
evident that day-break was at hand. A safe hiding-place for the day
next engaged our attention, and we halted. It was first determined that
one of our number should go a quarter of a mile further up the road,
to see if any houses were near in that direction. Sutherland went some
distance ahead, and on returning reported none. As we had passed but
one house since falling back from the ferry, we judged we were some
distance from any human habitation. The query then arose, shall we hide
in the open woods on our left, or in the inclosed woods on our right?
After a short parley, we concluded to secrete ourselves in the inclosed
woods. We could then get to the river without having the road to cross.
Any parties of cavalrymen that might be out scouring the country, were
also less likely to come across us in our retreat. Accordingly we
crossed the rail-fence, and left it and the road directly behind us. We
worked our way through the thickets of brush and briers until we were
fully a quarter of a mile from the road, in the direction of the river.
On a spot of ground entirely surrounded by pine-trees and bushes we
made our bed, and, lying down, soon fell asleep.
The weather being quite cold in the early morning, we waked up at
sunrise, on account of cold feet and general discomfort of body.
Trippe got up and took a partial survey of the adjacent woods. He
went northward, still further from the road we had left at day-break,
and found an open space where we could make our bed in the sunshine.
To this open space, which was covered over with tall dead grass, we
moved our haversacks and bedding. As we wished to rest well during the
day, we took pains to make a good bed. Quite a lot of dead grass and
leaves was first gathered. On the grass and leaves we spread the four
overcoats belonging to our party. On the overcoats we spread Smith's
bed quilt. Our caps, haversacks, and blouses were used as pillows, and
our five blankets were used as covering. In this manner we usually
made our bed all through our trip, varying it, of course, according
to circumstances. Having completed our bed, we laid ourselves down to
rest, and slept comfortably until late in the day. We made it a rule
for each of our party to sleep as much as desired during the day. We
did not require one of our number to keep awake as a watch for the
others during the day. If we had done so, we, of course, would have
watched by turns. The propriety of so doing was often discussed, but
we generally deemed it safest to have no watch, as the person watching
would have to sit or stand up, and would thus expose himself to the
danger of being seen by somebody who might be passing, and so lead to
our recapture.
It was near four o'clock in the afternoon of February 20th, when we
aroused ourselves from our first slumber as refugees from prison. We
got up and went down into a hollow near us, where there was running
water, and washed our faces. After combing our hair, we opened our
haversacks, and were about commencing to eat, when we discovered that
our corn-bread was frozen. Our matches--of which we had two small
boxes--which we had luckily procured some two weeks before, now came
in good play, as it was needful to have a small fire in order to thaw
our bread. We secured a small lot of dry pine limbs and twigs, and
built a fire in the hollow sufficient for our purposes; and soon we had
dispatched our first meal since leaving Ward No. 1. After finishing our
meal, we put our blankets and other baggage in traveling order. As it
was too early to set out, we engaged in conversation, laying plans and
expedients for effecting a crossing of the river. We resolved to put
ourselves across Dan River that night, or on the following day, at
almost any risk. As a final preparation for the night's marching, we
each secured a stout stick or cane. One of the boys alleged our canes
would be needed in case of attack. Taylor had a very large cane for a
man of his size. On being spoken to concerning it, he remarked that he
was going to cross the river on it. The evening wore away. The king of
day having sunk below the western horizon, we began to look for the
moon, whose light was to shine upon our pathway. It had not appeared
above the horizon; soon afterward, however, the moon arose, and began
shedding light. We felt a kind of loneliness on leaving the place which
had sheltered us during the day.
As Danville, Virginia, was within one mile of the southern boundary of
the State, and as we were at least thirteen miles south-west of that
place, we knew we were in the friendly brush and thickets of North
Carolina. On setting out, instead of going directly back to the road,
we traveled parallel with it for more than a mile. We then changed
our course and went back to it, thinking it late enough to travel it
without meeting any one. We had gone but a few miles on the road, and
passed but one house, when the noise of the river assured us it was not
far off. We then left the road and sought the banks of the stream. We
crossed an old field, in which we found much mud and water. The walking
was slavish and wearisome, as the wet, clayey soil adhered to our
shoes. The snow, which had recently melted, had swollen the branches.
We found it necessary to cross a branch or almost go back on our
trail. By means of a fence, a water gate, and some rails, we succeeded
in crossing it without much difficulty. It required time and close
watching, however.
On leaving the branch behind us we climbed a fence and entered
the woods. These woods were dense, and there was a thick, brushy
undergrowth, which greatly impeded our progress. We found it impossible
to go directly to the river. It was quite dark, for, although the moon
was shining brightly, its light penetrated the heavy woods imperfectly.
From the incessant roar of waters we judged we were near the river;
but we struggled on through vines and thickets for a full half-hour
longer. It was not a great while until we could see, ahead of us, quite
an opening; it was the course of the river through the forests. We
pressed on and soon stood upon the bank, against which dashed the angry
waters. Huge pieces of ice were borne swiftly down the swollen stream.
We had thought of constructing a raft of poles and rails, lashing them
together with bark and vines; but such materials were not at hand, and
the condition of the river forbade the attempt at crossing on a raft.
We longed to get across the river, but the prospect seemed all but
hopeless.
We pushed on up stream, hoping to find suitable materials for building
a raft and a place where the condition of the river would admit of
launching it. We had gone a mile or more without discovering any means
by which we could cross the stream; still we did not despair; hope
continued to struggle against reality. We must get across the river
that night, we thought, or venture too far and risk too much to-morrow.
The current of water became more rapid and impetuous as we advanced;
the roar of the river sounded much louder than before, and our chances
of getting across did not seem to improve. We soon came to a drift of
logs, slabs, and rails, but owing to the condition of the stream, the
quantities of ice and other obstructions in it, we concluded it would
be time and labor lost to make a raft and attempt a crossing there. Our
resolution to follow on up stream, keeping close to the water's edge
until morning, was then fixed. If we failed to find a canoe or other
means of crossing before that time we were then to resort to other
measures to get us out of our difficulties.
After our minds were fully made up as to the course we should pursue
we traveled about two and a half or three miles, when Sutherland
and I, who were considerably in advance, espied a canoe fastened
to the shore-with a chain and padlock. We were almost overjoyed at
the discovery. We could not wait for our associates to come up, but
followed back down stream to meet them. They were soon informed that we
had found a canoe, but they were almost incredulous. In a few minutes,
however, all doubts were removed, as they beheld with their own eyes
the object of our anxious and careful search. We felt as jubilant and
hopeful as if deliverance from all our troubles was just at hand; but,
in the excitement of the moment, we did not forget to exercise caution.
It was evident the canoe had not been used for several days; the oar
was lying in it, frozen in the ice, which had thawed but little; the
ice near the middle of the canoe, where the oar was lying, was about
three inches thick. In loosening the oar and breaking the chain which
secured the canoe, much noise would be made. It was necessary to have
two or three rails or poles. Smith and I went out some distance from
the river to procure them, and to see if any house was near. We found
an old orchard, inclosed by a dilapidated fence. On the southern
borders of the orchard we found two log huts, but they were old and
tenantless.
We returned to the river carrying with us three or four stout rails. As
we were satisfied we should not be heard we set to work regardless of
the noise we made. We found the canoe was locked or fastened in a large
slab of ice, which extended beyond it into the swift water. We first
used our sheet-iron knives and some sharp-pointed and sharp-cornered
rocks, and loosened the canoe from its icy bed. A passage-way for the
canoe was next broken through the ice to the current of the stream. We
then took our stoutest rail and broke the chain by prying on it. I took
a rail and placed myself in the end of the canoe farthest out from the
shore. Our haversacks, coats, and blankets were then placed in it, and
Trippe and Taylor came aboard. Trippe, with the oar in hand, launched
us out into the river. We found a swiftly rushing current, and were
compelled to row up stream. We kept bearing to our right, however, and
soon came in contact with the ice, which extended out from the opposite
bank. I took my rail and began breaking the ice. Soon I had broken
a narrow passage-way for the canoe, into which we thrust it, and it
became steady. I kept on breaking the ice and pushing the pieces aside.
The canoe was pushed nearer and nearer the bank. Soon I could reach the
low branches of a tree, which stood near the water's brink. I held on
to the boughs of the tree, and walked ashore on the ice. Taylor and I
removed our baggage from the canoe to the bank. Trippe went to bring
over our three comrades, who had been patiently waiting and watching.
He found some difficulty in entering the passage way as he neared the
bank upon which they stood. In due time our party was safely landed on
the shore, for which we had been anxiously striving the best part of
two nights.
The first great obstacle to our journey was surmounted. We felt freer
and safer. We were several miles from Danville--at least twenty. It was
past midnight. The sky above us was perfectly clear. The moon was high
in the heavens, and sent down rays of silvery light. Northward, in the
direction we wished to travel, the country appeared clear of timber,
and we had hopes of finding a good road before going a great distance.
When we were ready to leave the river this question arose: what shall
we do with our canoe--tie it up or allow it to float down the river?
We felt gratefully, even tenderly toward it. It had done us a great
service. We concluded to lash it fast to the tree, whose branches hung
low upon the bank. We did so; and left it and the river behind us.
We pushed due northward across the cleared fields. Some houses were
soon discernible in the moonlight, not far ahead of us. Turning a
little to the left, we soon reached a point directly west of the
houses. We heard much noise, and stopped to see if we could make out
what it meant. We approached a few steps nearer, and heard singing
and dancing. We thought it late for such exercises; but as it was
Saturday night all was explained, that night being known in Carolina
as negroes' night. As we had provisions enough for a meal or two, we
did not interrupt the exercises, or make our presence known to the
negroes. Nor did we tarry long, as we had no time to lose. We were in
Carolina, and had many miles to travel and many weary marches to make
through a bleak mountain country before our escape was made good. Our
circuit around the houses was continued at a safe distance, until we
struck a road running south-east and north-west. We turned to our left
and followed the road north-west a little more than a mile. As we felt
somewhat hungry, we halted among some bushes at the road side and eat
a few pieces of corn-bread. After eating, we pushed on, feeling much
refreshed. In a short time we came to a cross-road, when we changed
our course and went due north. In that direction we traveled until
day-break. A safe hiding-place for the day was next in order, and we
set about finding it. We went into the woods some distance to the
left of the road, where we found quite a cluster of cedar bushes, in
the midst of which we thought we could safely spend the Sabbath day,
February 21st. Our bed was at once made and we gladly laid ourselves
down to slumber soundly.
It was near three o'clock in the evening when we awoke. On looking
about us in all directions, and seeing nobody, we got up. We ventured
to a branch, nearly a hundred yards distant, and washed our faces. The
canteen and bucket were filled with water and brought near where we
had been sleeping. Our toilet was completed by combing our hair, after
which we sat down and eat the last of our provisions. How we should
procure another supply became the subject of discussion. Various plans
were proposed; one of which we determined to try. If it failed we were,
of course, to resort to another. The late hours of the evening were
passed in adverting to the good fortune which had attended us so far on
the trip. The possibilities and probabilities of the future were also
alluded to.
As we became deeply interested in our talk the time passed quickly. The
tall forest-trees cast long shadows over us. The sun was disappearing
in the west. The sky was cloudless. Our preparations for the third
night of travel were complete. Soon after dusk we emerged from our
hiding place, and in due time were upon the road. Our rest during the
day had been refreshing, and we walked briskly forward. We passed
one house early in the night. It was too early, we thought, to try
our plan for procuring food, and the appearance of the house and its
surroundings did not justify the belief that the occupants had any
food to spare. So we passed on. Near ten o'clock we came to another
house on our left. It was near the road, not more than twenty yards
distant. From appearances all inside were asleep. At least no light was
visible, and silence reigned. At most of the houses we had passed,
the dogs had barked at us. It was not so at this one. We went a few
yards beyond the house and halted in the road. Five of us were to lie
in wait, while the sixth went forth on the errand of necessity. Which
one of us should go upon the errand was a question for decision. It was
decided by drawing cuts. Taylor was chosen to attempt the experiment.
Taylor's overcoat was of a light-gray color, and had once belonged to
a Confederate soldier. Smith's cap was also of "secesh" antecedents.
Taylor donned them both, and was to play the Confederate soldier on
furlough. He was to go to the front door of the house and knock. When
the door was opened to him, if he was asked to come in he was to
decline on the pretext of not having time. He was then to apply for
something to eat, enough for himself and two comrades a supper that
night and breakfast the next morning, which would suffice for one meal
for our party. He was to insist on immediate compliance to the request
on the plea that he and his comrades were hungry and obliged to march
all night. If asked why so? he was to answer that they had been home on
furlough, that their time was nearly out, and that they must report to
the company by a certain time--we had anticipated many questions that
we judged would be asked, and had answers to suit.
After we had drilled Taylor for a few minutes at the road side, and
found him to be a hungry soldier, with nothing Confederate about him
except his overcoat and cap, he started to the house. Our eyes followed
him as long as he could be seen. We then retired from the road to
the fence and waited about twenty minutes, until Taylor returned and
made report. He entered the yard in front of the house and approached
the door. Before reaching the door his heart suddenly failed of its
purpose. He felt himself unequal to the emergency. He immediately
turned to his left to examine a smoke-house or other out-house, in
which he hoped to find something that would do to eat. The door was
securely fastened, which fact caused him to suspect there were some
provisions inside. The house was constructed of round logs, and Taylor
reached his arm through the space between them to see if he could
feel any meat. He examined carefully on each side, but his arm was
too short. He could feel nothing. In the mean time, his attention was
attracted to another out-building, and he went to examine it. He passed
the dwelling, leaving it between him and the road. His search was still
unfruitful.
While examining the second out-house he noticed a stable or shed about
sixty yards distant. By going to it he would be still farther from
the dwelling, and he would feel safer while prosecuting his search.
As a last resort before going to the dwelling, he visited the stable
in the hope of finding some corn, upon which we would have subsisted
in preference to running too great a risk in procuring more palatable
food. He could find no corn in the stable, nor grain of any kind.
There was some hay or straw, and a lot of corn-blades tied in bundles.
In a shed adjoining the stable were six or seven horses feeding on
corn-blades. Taylor was impressed with the idea that they were cavalry
horses, and on farther examination a saddle or rig for each of the
horses was found. He then determined not to visit the dwelling at
all, as it was certain there was half a dozen or more men, perhaps
cavalry-men, inside of it, sheltering for the night. He then quietly
rejoined us at the road side. We had run a great risk; our escape had
been narrow. Had Taylor gone half a dozen steps nearer the house he
would have walked on some plank or slabs in front of the door; his
footfalls might have been heard by those inside, and his presence
become known. It was manifest that good fortune was still a companion
of our journey. Had the plan we had devised been followed our recapture
would certainly have ensued.
It was yet early in the night--near eleven o'clock--and we determined
to put several miles between those cavalry-men and our stopping-place
in the morning. Before starting, however, we held a short parley as to
the propriety of taking the horses and riding them until day-break.
On the question of taking the horses our party was about equally
divided. The views of those who opposed the project prevailed. The
chief objection to it was the great and necessary risk, at the time,
in getting the horses to the road without disturbing their owners,
and that in case we were retaken, and found guilty of horse-stealing
or other depredations, it might go hard with us. By the light of the
moon we discovered we had made numerous foot-prints in the road. We
could not obliterate them without taking time, and leaving even plainer
traces behind us. So we walked backward several yards on the road.
On the north of the road were open woods. We stepped aside from the
road a few yards and walked parallel with it, face foremost, through
the woods, where we could make no tracks. On going about a mile we
crossed to the opposite side of the road. In so doing we went south,
but left tracks in the road as though we had gone north. We walked
rapidly through the woods near the road until we had gone another mile,
which brought us to fields. As the walking was not good in the fields
on account of the moist clay, we took the road and hurried forward.
At short intervals we went on the double-quick. By midnight we had
traveled ten or eleven miles. More than one-third of the distance had
been gone over since we had found the cavalry horses. Our speed had
been accelerated by that discovery. We were much wearied, and halted
at a fence near the road side to rest. We were hungry, and would have
eaten something, but our haversacks were empty, and hanging loosely at
our side. Our rest was brief, but sufficiently long to stiffen our knee
and ankle joints.
Our journey was resumed, and we trudged on slowly at first, but soon
increased our speed. There were but few houses near the road, and these
we passed with cautious steps. A second attempt to get rations was not
made that night, as we were fearful of making a second failure, and
losing time besides. We resolved to wait until the morrow, and trust
to luck or Providence to feed us. The road improved as we advanced,
and we made good progress. It bore a little north of west. On crossing
a branch we halted and took up some water in our half-moon tin-bucket
and drank freely. We then filled our canteen and bucket with water and
carried it with us. We were exceedingly tired, and did not wish to
take the time and trouble to look out for a hiding-place convenient to
water. The gray light of morning was faintly appearing in the east,
and we knew our journeying must cease for a time. Our sense of hunger
had subsided, or been overcome by weariness. We left the road and went
some distance south of it into a heavy forest. When nearly a mile from
the road we halted, and quickly spread our bed upon the ground. We then
sank wearily to rest, and were sleeping soundly before sunrise.
It was on the morning of February 22d that we had thus sought repose in
the wintery forest of Virginia. We had got out of Carolina soon after
crossing Dan River, and had traveled almost due northward until we
passed Martinsville, Henry county, Virginia. We passed about two miles
to the right of Martinsville, and then bore a little west of north.
On February 22d we were hid not many miles--probably not more than a
night's march--from the southern boundary of Franklin county, Virginia.
It was the anniversary of Washington's birth. We remembered the fact,
and revered the memory of Washington, although his native State had
tendered us a very poor and meager hospitality, and was treating us
shabbily. The forest of Virginia, however, protected us from her own
and our country's enemies.