DOWN THE RIVER TO HARPER’S FERRY.
Sharpsburg is not a promising place to spend the night in, and I
determined to leave it that evening. In search of a private conveyance,
I entered a confectioner’s shop, and asked a young lady behind the
counter if she knew any person who would take me to Harper’s Ferry.
“Yes; Mr. Bennerhalls,” she replied; “I reckon ye can get him.”
She gave me particular directions for finding his house, and I went up
one of the broken pavements “fanged with murderous stones,” in search of
him. To my surprise I was told that Mr. Bennerhalls did not live on that
street; further, that no person of that name was known in Sharpsburg. I
returned to the confectioner’s shop.
“You said _Mr. Bennerhalls_?”
“Yes, sir; Mr. Bennerhalls, and Mr. Cramerhalls, and Mr. Joneshalls; I
should think you might get one of them.”
I fancy the young lady must have seen a smile on my countenance just
then. Bennerhalls, Cramerhalls, Joneshalls,—what outlandish cognomens
were these? Did half the family names in Sharpsburg rejoice in the
termination _halls_?
“I _know_ Mr. Joneshalls,” said the young lady, as I stood solving the
doubt, probably with an amused expression which she mistook for
sarcastic incredulity.
“Joneshalls” I had never heard of. But I had heard of Jones. Thanks to
that somewhat familiar name, I had found a clue to the mystery. “Jones
_hauls_,” thought I, that is to say, Jones hauls people over the road in
his wagon.
And the first-mentioned individual was not _Bennerhalls_ at all, but one
Benner who _hauled_.
I thanked the young lady for her courtesy,—and I am sure she must have
thought me a very pleasant man,—and went to find Mr. Benner without the
_halls_.
No difficulty this time. He was sitting on a doorstep, where he had
perhaps heard me before inquiring up and down for Mr. Bennerhalls, and
scratched his head over the odd patronymic.
“Yes, I have hosses, and I haul sometimes, but I can’t put one on ’em
over that road to Harper’s Ferry, stranger, nohow!”
I got no more satisfaction out of Cramer, and still less out of Jones,
who informed me that not only he would not go, but he didn’t believe
there was a man in Sharpsburg that would.
I returned to the tavern, and appealed to the landlord, a pleasant and
very obliging man, although not so well versed as some in the art of
keeping a hotel. To my surprise, after what Jones had told me, he said,
“if I could find no one else to haul me, he would.”
At five P. M. we left Sharpsburg in an open buggy under a sky that
threatened rain. Black clouds and thunder-gusts were all around us. The
mountains were wonderful to behold the nearer slopes lying in shadow,
sombre almost to blackness, while beyond, rendered all the more glorious
by that contrast, rose the loveliest sun-smitten summits, basking in the
peace of paradise. Beyond these still were black-capped peaks, about
which played uncertain waves of light, belts and bars of softest
indescribable colors, perpetually shifting, brightening, and vanishing
in mist. It was like a momentary glimpse of heaven through the stormy
portals of the world. Then down came the deluging rack and enveloped
all.
Through occasional spatters of rain, angrily spitting squalls, we
whipped on. It was a fleet horse my friend drove. He was pleased to hear
me praise him.
“That’s a North-Carolina horse. I brought him home with me.”
“You have been in the army then?”
And out came the interesting fact that I was riding with Captain Speaker
of the First Maryland Cavalry, a man who had seen service, and had
things to tell.
Everybody remembers, in connection with the shameful surrender of
Harper’s Ferry just before the battle of Antietam, the brilliant episode
of twenty-two hundred Federal cavalry cutting their way out, and
capturing a part of one of Longstreet’s trains on their escape. Captain
Speaker was the leader of that expedition.
“I was second lieutenant of the First Maryland Cavalry at the time. I
knew Colonel Davis very well; and when I heard Harper’s Ferry was to be
surrendered, I remarked to him that I would not be surrendered with it
alive. He asked what I would do. ‘Cut my way out,’ said I. When he asked
what I meant, I told him I believed I could not only get out myself, but
that I could pilot out with safety any number of cavalry that would take
the same risk and go with me. I had lived in the country all my life,
and knew every part of it. Colonel Davis saw that I was in earnest, and
knew what I was talking about. The idea just suited him, and he applied
to Colonel Miles for permission to put it into execution. Colonel Miles
was not a man to think much of such projects, and he was inclined to
laugh at it. ‘Who is this Lieutenant Speaker,’ said he, ‘who is so
courageous?’ Colonel Davis said he knew me, and had confidence in my
plan. ‘It’s all talk,’ said Miles; ‘put him to the test, and he’ll back
down.’
“Just try him,” said Davis.
“So Miles wrote on a piece of paper,—
“Lieutenant Speaker, will you take charge of a cavalry force and lead it
through the enemy’s lines?”
“I just wrote under it, on the same piece of paper, ‘Yes, with
pleasure;’ signed my name, and sent it back to him.”
At ten o’clock the same night they started. It was Sunday, the 14th of
September, the day of the battle of South Mountain. The party consisted
of twenty-two hundred cavalry and a number of mounted civilians who took
advantage of the expedition to escape from the town before it was
surrendered. Lieutenant Speaker and Colonel Davis rode side by side at
the head of the column. They crossed on the pontoon bridge, which formed
the military connection between Harper’s Ferry and Maryland Heights, and
turned up the road which runs between the canal and the Heights, riding
at full charge along the left bank of the Potomac. It was a wild road;
the night was dark; only the camp-fires on the mountain were visible;
and there was no sound but the swift clatter of thousands of galloping
hoofs, and the solitary rush of the Potomac waters.
Near a church, four miles from the Ferry, Speaker and Davis, who were
riding ahead of the party, were challenged by the Rebel pickets.
“Who goes there?”
“Friends to the guard.”
“What command?”
“Second Virginia Cavalry,” said Colonel Davis,—which was true, the
Second Virginia _Union_ Cavalry being of the party, while the Second
Virginia _Rebel_ Cavalry was also in the vicinity. “Who are you?”
“Louisiana Tigers.”
“All right. We are out scouting.”
“All right,” said the pickets.
The leaders rode back, formed their party at a short distance, gave the
word, and charged. They went through the Rebel line like an
express-train. A few shots were fired at them by the astonished pickets,
but they got through almost without loss. Three horses were killed and
three men dismounted, but the latter escaped up the mountain side, and
afterwards made their way safely into the Union lines.
They galloped on to Sharpsburg, keeping the same road all the way by
which Captain Speaker was now conveying me to the Ferry. The enemy held
Sharpsburg. Fortunately in every street and by-road Speaker was at home;
He called up a well-known Union citizen, from whom he obtained important
information. “The Rebels are in strong force on the Hagerstown Road.
They have heavy batteries, too, posted on the Williamsport Pike.” There
was then but one thing to do. “Down with the fences and take to the
fields,” said the pilot of the party.
This they accordingly did;—tramp, tramp, in the darkness, by cross-roads
and through fields and woods.
“We struck the pike between Hagerstown and Williamsport about two
o’clock. We came to a halt pretty quick, though, for there was a Rebel
wagon-train several miles in length, passing along the pike. There were
no fences; and the woods were clear and beautiful for our purpose. Our
line was formed along by the pike, extending some three-quarters of a
mile. Then we charged. The first the guards and drivers knew, there were
sabres at their heads; and all they had to do was to turn their wagons
right about and go with us. We captured over seventy wagons, all the
rear of the train. They had to travel a little faster in the other
direction than they had been going, so that some of the wagons broke
down by the way; but the rest we got safely off.”
It was just daylight when they arrived at Greencastle and turned the
wagons over to the Federal quartermaster there. “Then you should have
seen each fellow tumble himself off his horse! Remember, we had been
fighting at the Ferry, and this was the third night we had had no sleep.
Each man just took a turn of the bridle around his wrist, and dropped
down on the pavement in the street, anywhere, and in three minutes was
fast asleep.
“Colonel Davis and I found a cellar-door, softer than stones, to lie on,
and there we dropped. I was asleep as soon as my head struck the board.
But it couldn’t have been five minutes before I was woke up by somebody
pulling the bridle from my wrist.
“’What do you want?’
“’Want your horse; want you; want to give you some breakfast.’
“I got my eyes open; it was broad day then; and it was a beautiful
sight! Everybody in Greencastle was crowding to see the cavalry fellows
that had cut their way through the Rebel lines. The Colonel and I were
surrounded with ladies bringing us breakfast. I tell you, it was
beautiful!” And the Captain’s eyes glistened at the remembrance.
“We were hungry enough! But I said, ‘Just give my horse here something
to eat first; then I’ll eat.’ ‘Certainly.’ And they were going to take
him away from me, to some stable. ‘Never mind about that,’ said I. ‘Just
bring your oats and empty them down here anywhere; he’s used to eating
off the ground.’ The oats were not slow coming; and Colonel Davis and I
and our horses had breakfast together, with the ladies looking on. I
tell you, it was beautiful!”
It is eleven miles from Sharpsburg to Harper’s Ferry. After striking the
Potomac, we continued on down its left bank, with the canal between us
and the river on one side, and Maryland Heights, rising even more and
more rugged and abrupt, on the other; until, as we approached the bridge
at the Ferry, we looked up through the stormy dusk at mountain crags
rising precipitous several hundred feet above our heads. Crossing the
new iron bridge, near the ruins of the old one destroyed by the Rebels,
Captain Speaker landed me near the end of it on the Virginia side.
“Where is the hotel?” I asked, looking round with some dismay at the
dismal prospect.
“That is it, the only hotel at Harper’s Ferry now,”—showing me a new,
unpainted, four-story wooden building, which looked more like soldiers’
barracks than a hotel. There was not a window-blind or shutter to be
seen. The main entrance from the street was through a bar-room where
merry men were clicking glasses, and sucking dark-colored stuff through
straws. And this was a “first-class hotel kept on the European plan.” I
mention it as one of the results of war,—as an illustration of the
mushroom style of building which springs up in the track of desolation,
to fill temporarily the place of the old that has been swept away and of
the better growth to come.
One thing, however, consoled me. The hotel stood on the banks of the
Potomac, and I thought if I could get a room overlooking the river and
commanding a view of the crags opposite, all would be well; for often
the mere sight of a mountain and a stream proves a solace for saddest
things.
After supper a “room” was shown me, which turned out to be a mere bin to
stow guests in. There was no paper on the walls, no carpet on the rough
board floor, and not so much as a nail to hang a hat on. The bed was
furnished with sheets which came down just below a man’s knees, and a
mattress which had the appearance of being stuffed with shingles.
Finding it impossible, by dint of shouting and pounding, (for there was
no bell,) or even by visiting the office, to bring a servant to my
assistance, I went on a marauding expedition through the unoccupied
rooms, and carried off a chair, a dressing-table, and another bed
entire. This I placed on my mattress, hoping thereby to improve the
feeling of it,—a fruitless experiment, however: it was only adding a few
more shingles. Luckily I had a shawl with me. Never,—let me caution
thee, O fellow-traveller,—never set out on a long journey without a good
stout shawl. Such an appendage answers many purposes: a garment on a raw
and gusty day, a blanket by night, a cushion for the seat, a pillow for
the head,—to these and many like comfortable uses it is speedily applied
by its grateful possessor. Mine helped to soften the asperities of my
bed that night, and the next day served as a window-curtain.
Yet no devices availed to render the Shenandoah House a place favorable
to sleep. On the river-side, close by the door, ran the track of the
Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. How often during the night the trains
passed I cannot now compute; each approaching and departing with clatter
and clang, and shouts of men and bell-ringing and sudden glares of
light, and the voice of the steam-whistle projecting its shrill shriek
into the ear of horrified night, and setting the giant mountains to
tossing and retossing the echo like a ball.
The next morning I was up at dawn refreshing my eyesight with the
natural beauties of the place. It was hard to believe that those
beauties had been lying latent around me during all the long, wearisome
night. But so it is ever; we see so little of God’s great plan! The dull
life we live, close and dark and narrow as it seems, is surrounded by
invisible realities, waiting only for the rays of a spiritual dawn to
light them up into grandeur and glory.