Chapter I

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THE ADVENTURES OF TWO ALABAMA BOYS

[Illustration:

W. B. CRUMPTON

H. J. CRUMPTON

"The Boys" as they looked then]

THE ADVENTURES OF TWO ALABAMA BOYS

In Three Sections

by

H. J. and W. B. CRUMPTON

Part One

The Adventures of Dr. H. J. Crumpton, of

Piedmont, California, in his efforts to reach

the Gold Fields in 1849

Part Two

The Adventures of Rev. W. B. Crumpton, going

to and returning from California, including his

Lecture, "The Original Tramp, or How a Boy

Got through the Lines to the Confederacy"

Part Three

To California and Back after a Lapse of

Forty Years

Montgomery, Ala.

The Paragon Press

1912

Copyright 1912 by W. B. Crumpton

Printed at the Paragon Press

Dedication

We dedicate the little booklet to our children. Maybe others will be

interested also. We are certain there are important lessons here for

young people, who are in earnest. For the frivolous and thoughtless

there is nothing.

"_The Boys._"

Foreword.

THE ADVENTURES OF TWO ALABAMA BOYS was prepared some years ago with

the view of putting it in book form; but "The Boys" have been so

very busy the publication has been delayed.

SECTION ONE contains the adventures of Dr. H. J. Crumpton, a native

of Wilcox county, but since '49 a citizen of California, now

residing on a beautiful spot in Piedmont, a suburb of the city of

Oakland.

These incidents which he relates, his baby brother, the writer

of these lines, heard when he was a scrap of a boy. They made a

profound impression on his youthful mind, and he has ever cherished

the hope that some day he might see them in print. They were

prepared at my earnest solicitation. I feel sure it was no easy

task to dig up from memory almost forgotten incidents and put them

in shape for the reader. At this writing, though he is advanced in

years, past eighty-four, the good wife writes: "He is smart and

active as ever--walks fifteen miles and it doesn't feaze him."

One of the most noted buildings in San Francisco is that of the

Society of California Pioneers, of which Society he is an honored

member and a Vice-President. His opinion of politics one can

discover by a letter to the writer. He says: "I am forced to the

conclusion, after serving in the Legislature of my adopted State

several terms and in a local municipality, that politics is a filthy

pool." An opinion shared by a good many others. Some are said to

be born politicians; but I am sure none were born in the Crumpton

family. Every one of the name I have ever known, felt great interest

in all public questions and had opinions about them, but office

seeking has not been to their liking.

A family trait is, an undying love for the old haunts. This caused

the old Forty Niner, when he possessed the means to do so, to

purchase the old farm of his father, fulfilling in part, no doubt, a

dream of his youthful days.

Though in the land of the enemy he was loyal to the South during

the war between the States, proving his faith by his works when he

invested much of his means in Confederate Bonds. The Confederacy

failing, of course this was a clear loss to him. Just at the

breaking out of the Civil War, he returned to California to look

after his interests there and to see what had become of me. If

the reader will turn to my letters which follow, he will get the

connection.

He failed to tell a most interesting event in his history: When a

miner, he often took on his knee a wee-bit of a girl, Mattie by

name, the daughter of William Jack, a sturdy old Scotch-Irishman,

from Beloit, Wis. She called him "sweetheart," and he often took

her pledge to be his wife some day. Sure enough, the old bachelor

waited, and little Mattie has been for many years the mistress of

his home. In one of the most cozy cottages of Sausalito, nestling

against the mountain, with the Bay and the City of San Francisco

at its front, it was my pleasure to visit the little family some

years ago. It had been forty years since I had seen my brother.

In her father's home in 1862, near Beloit, I had spent two months

delightfully, while stealthily preparing to make my way through the

lines to the Confederacy. I know it was in his heart to tell of his

wife and his charming daughter, Clara, the light and joy of the

home; but the burden of writing was too much, and abruptly he gave

up the job.

I am glad indeed the Adventures begin with something of the family

history. He is the only member of the family remaining who knows

anything about it (there are only two of us now). I am mortified

that I failed to find out some of the facts from my father, who was

so long with me in his old age.

My brother, after his adventurous life in the mines, served his

adopted State in the Legislature and later settled down, after

graduation, to the practice of medicine, a profession he seemed to

have a liking for from his boyhood. At this writing he is a citizen

of Piedmont, California. He is hale and hearty and says that in

1915, when the Panama Canal is opened, he is going to visit the

States again and bring his wife. Every foot of the route across the

Isthmus will be familiar, as he crossed it several times, one time

partly on foot, before the railroad was completed.

W. B. CRUMPTON.

Montgomery, Ala.

Part One

By H. J. Crumpton

The Adventures of Dr. H. J. Crumpton of Piedmont, California,

in his efforts to reach the Gold Fields in 1849

Recollections of the family life; Arrival in Alabama; Moves to town;

Changes vocation; Becomes a printer; The Mexican War; Starts on

his wanderings; The gold excitement; Starts for the Far West; New

acquaintances; Another start West; Strikes out all alone; A plunge

in the overflow; Falls in with the military; Strikes hands with old

friends; Food scarce; Confronted by Indians; Alone again; Reaches

California; Loses his oxen; In God's country at last; Gets a job;

Takes sail; Hears sad tidings; No pay for services; At Oro City;

In the mines; At rough-and-ready; Starts back home; In a wreck; On

the Panama; In New Orleans; Finds his brother; Detained in Mobile;

Business complications; Back to the mines; Returns to Alabama;

Opinion about slavery.

[Illustration: decoration]

Part One

MY DEAR Brother Wash:

You asked me to prepare some notes on the wanderings of an Alabama

Boy. To do this from memory after such a lapse of time will be

somewhat inaccurate and prosy, I fear.

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE FAMILY LIFE.

Our parents were married about 1816. Mother was Miss Matilda Smith

Bryan and father Henry T. Crumpton. Both sprang from honorable,

well-to-do people from revolutionary sires, who were soldiers of

distinction under General Francis Marion. Our maternal grandfather

was Rev. Richard Bryan, a Methodist preacher. Our parents started

married life in Walterboro, Colleton District, S. C., where were

born to them Mary, Richard Alexander, Maranda Ann, Henry Thomas,

Hezekiah John, (myself, born Sept. 18, 1828), and William Zachariah;

the balance of the ten children, afterwards born in Alabama were

James Henderson, Martha Matilda, Jane Eliza, and Washington Bryan,

yourself, the baby. All have now passed into the life beyond except

you and me.

In Walterboro our father developed into something of a plunger in

the financial world; made several successful deals, later formed a

partnership--the other fellow furnishing experience, our progenitor

the "dough." They invested in the purchase and driving of cattle

to supply the Charleston beef market. They succeeded well, always

re-investing original capital and profit in another and bigger

lot, finally meeting a calamity by the drowning of the whole herd

in attempting to cross a swollen stream, Broad River, perhaps at

its mouth and perhaps from not knowing of the ebb and flow of the

tide, though living within forty miles of the coast. With a feeling

of disgust, following this financial collapse, our father sought

new environment, and by the aid of kins folk loaded up family and

household belongings in 1832 and struck out through the wilderness

for Alabama, across Georgia through the Chickasaw and Choctaw

nations, before the removal of those and other friendly tribes was

completed to the territory now forming part of the State of Oklahoma.

ARRIVAL IN ALABAMA.

After a dreary trip, we safely landed at the delightful home of

grandmother Bryan near "Fort Rascal," now Pleasant Hill, Dallas

Co. We afterwards moved to old Cahaba, where our father succeeded

well in business. The arrival of a steamboat was quite an event,

occurring maybe once a month; everybody turned out. They had a

crude way of loading cotton. A bale was carelessly turned loose and

rolled over our brother Henry, who sustained injuries from which he

died. This was such a shock for poor mother, it was determined best

to have a change of scenes. Our family removed from old Cahaba to

Farmersville, a little hamlet in Lowndes county. One thing about

our stay there is vividly remembered. A dear, good old soul, named

Ingram, was my school teacher in the log-cabin school house. He

didn't know much and didn't try to fool anybody; but he was a great

stickler for what he called "etiket"--was bent on teaching his

children good manners. Just about all of Friday was devoted to this

stunt. It was quite a relief, after we got rid of our bashfulness.

The previous four days, twelve hours each, with our prosy studies,

put us in good shape for a change on Friday. The dear old fellow

managed to work in more or less change of program from time to time;

but one inflexible feature was to send one of the girls out of one

of the side doors, then detail some boy to go out the other, to

escort her back and introduce her to each one of the whole school,

an ordeal to which every boy and girl had to be subjected. Some

regarded this as a hardship, but to this degenerate son of Adam

'twas always a roaring farce and as good as a circus!

Our family about this time came into possession of quite an

inheritance, which was added to the proceeds from sale of the

effects at Cahaba, and invested in a fine body of land, about the

junction of Grindstone and Bear Creeks, in Wilcox county. Our

charming new home was built on high ground on Dogwood Level, a

little way from the farm, where we had a spring of fine water and

plenty of good air. By this time three of us boys were big enough

to work and strong, willing workers we were. With no experience and

not always guided in our farming, we got along better than neighbors

to the manner born, and were learning and doing fairly well. It

was perhaps the mistake of a lifetime to accept an offer to sell

the whole outfit, at figures far in advance of cost or apparent

present value, to people who knew a good thing when they saw it--the

Maxwells--a noble acquisition to that then border settlement.

MOVED TO TOWN.

We moved to the county seat, Barbersville, now Camden, and went

into the hotel business. We furnished a good table, clean house,

clean beds, was popular and crowded from the start--lots of old

family friends from far and near, called for entertaining whom it

would have been an outrage on Southern hospitality to tender, or

accept compensation. In this way all profits were "chawed up"--a

mighty poor way to run a hotel. But we older boys were pretty good

hustlers, earned enough to help along, tiding over and in the

education of the younger children.

_My first stunt_ in that direction was starting an express and

stage line. Carried passengers and freight between our town and

Bridgeport, nearest landing on the Alabama River. My outfit was a

one-horse affair with a highly prized annex--an undersized black

cur, "Beaver,"--worthless in the estimation of everyone, other than

his affectionate owner.

About this time, two enterprising young men from New England started

a general store at the landing. On a return trip from the East

to buy goods, one of them brought with him a large Newfoundland

dog--the first one in those parts, which he "sicked" onto Beaver.

Owing to the difference in size, results were quick and one-sided.

Seeing me crying in affectionate, helpless distress, the fellow had

the heartless bad taste to exultingly ask: "What do you think of

that, young man?" My response between sobs was: "You, a big man,

made a big dog lick a little boy's little dog. By and by, I will be

as big as you and will then do to you what has been done today to my

Beaver." Years afterwards, when, perhaps, as the first successful

Californian to return, the people of dear old Camden tendered me

quite an ovation, he of the dog fight, among them, was loud in

expressing welcome and personal admiration, which made it deucedly

bad taste in me to allude to the old thing, by saying: "If now the

attempt was made to execute the promised retaliation, it would show

a malicious, revengeful spirit, without in any way changing what

occurred in the long ago, so please consider the incident closed,"

and so it was with a snap.

CHANGE OF VOCATION.

Maybe the dog fight prompted a change of vocation to that of mail

carrier, on horse back or mule back, the route extending from Cahaba

down the river by Cambridge[A] to Prairie Bluff, across the river

and up by old Canton, to Camden, Bells Landing, Claiborne, thence to

Stockton, in Baldwin county, and serving intervening post offices.

It required six days to make a round trip with the seventh day off,

Thursday, either at Stockton or the other end. At Stockton, as a

government attaché one had the privilege to go on the mail boat to

Mobile and return after a stay of five hours--quite a treat for a

country boy. Whereas, a day off at the other end involved an extra

ride of ten miles to Selma and return, because the contractor lived

there, and thus saved the keep of boy and horse in Cahaba.

[A] The post office at Cambridge was in the home of a planter, C. M.

Cochran, H. J. C. carried the mail into that home many a time, about

the time the other Alabama boy was born. Into that home the latter

entered in 1870 and took the baby daughter of the old post master to

be his wife. The post office has been long known as Crumptonia.--W.

B. C.

With an ambition to do faithful and efficient service, reckless

risks were some times taken. I once got into Flat Creek, when the

old worn-out mule was unable to stem the stiff current. We were

carried down stream toward the river not far away. A friendly

overhanging grape-vine gave me a stopping place and not far below

the mule lodged in a submerged tree-top. My lusty yells brought

the good Samaritan. When about to swim out to rescue me, he was

disgusted when told to first save the mule and mail. This he did

in good shape; meantime, I did my own swimming. The water was

emptied out of the mail bag, the bag thrown across the saddle,

the mule mounted, and away we went for a bridge several miles up

the stream. Maybe it was not the same old mule which about a year

afterwards laid down and died suddenly, some eight miles from our

terminal point, Cahaba. Slinging saddle, bridle, and mail bag over

my shoulder, the balance of the trip was made on foot and the

mail delivered on time. When next pay day came around, the old

contractor placed his own value on the mule and took same out of my

wages. My job was thrown up immediately and suit commenced for the

amount due, but tiring of the law's delay, the case was allowed to

lapse, and the wretch allowed the comfort of having beaten a boy

out of hard earned wages. Doubtless he has long since passed to the

beyond. He was outwardly a devout and sanctimonious man; if one were

sure he is now enjoying a state of heavenly bliss, it would more

than justify a belief in universal salvation.

BECOMES A PRINTER.

My next work was an apprentice in a printing office--a fine school

for a boy with an ambition to learn. Those capable of judging soon

began to credit me with quick, accurate work. 'Twas a misfortune

perhaps, and entailed following hardships to have an early ambition

for something beyond--commenced "reading medicine"--generally in

hours stolen from sleep or out-door exercise and sunshine.

MEXICAN WAR.

When the war with Mexico commenced, brothers William and Richard

went as volunteers, the latter on a very short enlistment, and

afterwards wrote he had declined further service in the ranks,

having secured employment more lucrative in the quartermaster's

employment. Although not exactly fair thus to leave the old folks

alone with a number of younger children, I left for Memphis, Tenn.,

soon after the other boys went to Mexico and matriculated as a

student in a medical college.

I paid my way by working between times in a printing office. There

I remained for two years and made fine progress. I was still under

age, and on some account I concluded there would be but little

honor in attaining a degree from that school, so I determined for

a time to suspend further efforts in that direction. I was growing

up thin and cadaverous looking, longing for out-door life, so I

left Memphis with a view of joining brother Richard on the Rio

Grande frontier. Upon my arrival at New Orleans, May 1848, peace was

declared with Mexico. Concluding that our brothers and all other

American troops would come home soon, I returned to our home in

Camden. William came before a great while, but Richard wrote he had

joined a Major Graham's party soon to leave the Rio Grande frontier

to take possession of this recently acquired territory, California,

as a part of the rich spoils of war. Upon learning this, my purpose

was at once declared to join him as soon as possible, though having

next to nothing financially to go on. This was before the finding of

gold there had been announced to us. A man, Kilpatrick by name, from

Clark county, had been quite sick in Camden, under treatment of Dr.

Bryant. More as a nurse than a half-baked doctor, he had been cared

for by me also, for which there was quite a sum due. Announcing to

him my purpose, and asking payment for amount due, he, like others,

was shocked at so desperate an undertaking, but said my claim would

be paid as soon as he could obtain money from home. This emergency

was soon bridged over by his giving me a check on his folks for the

amount.

STARTS ON HIS WANDERINGS.

So I packed my belongings into a pair of old saddle-bags, which

was sent down the river to Mobile. I collected every cent due me

in Camden and struck out across country for Kilpatrick's home in

Clark county on foot. In those days it was rare to see a decent

appearing white chap thus traveling. White folks looked askance and

suspicious, and the darkies wondered. It was a comfort to hear a

darky say to her companions: "Yander boy haint no po' white trash."

She didn't know how scantily filled was my purse.

The Kilpatricks treated me like a prince, paid me liberally for

services to afflicted relative, urged me to stay with them longer,

and bade me Godspeed in my desperate undertaking. Resuming my

tramp, it was not far to the Tombigbee, where a steamboat picked

me up and in due time landed me in Mobile, where my first care was

to hunt up my old saddle-bags. I forgot to pay the consignee, who

perhaps thought me a rich planter's son, whose cotton crop he hoped

to handle later on.

THE GOLD EXCITEMENT.

By this time the great gold discoveries were known the world over.

At New Orleans I saw a circular sent out from Fort Smith, Ark., "Ho,

for California Gold Mines!" It went on to say that an expedition

was fitting out at that point, soon to start overland. After some

mistakes enroute, I reached Ft. Smith, perhaps in Oct. 1848, to be

informed that the expedition was only in its incipiency, not to

leave there until the following spring, which was just as well for

me, as most of my scanty funds had been used up. I was fortunate

indeed in finding work. I was never idle a day, so that within

six months, I accumulated quite a little sum. I suppose I had

the appearance of being an undersized country boy; but everybody

soon saw a quick willingness to do diligently any task given me.

'Twas soon my good fortune to fall in with John F. Wheeler, an old

Georgian, who had married a Cherokee--an intelligent, educated

woman. They had a number of children, mostly girls, all well

behaved. He owned the Fort Smith Herald, put me to work, took me

into his family, a delightful, cheerful home. When spring opened,

mostly through him, terms were made for my transportation with dear

old Charley Hudspeth, who showed the affection of a father for his

son.

STARTS FOR THE FAR WEST.

We left Fort Smith April 12th, 1849, traveled westerly up the

Canadian river through the territory of the Choctaws and other of

those friendly tribes, who had been moved from Georgia, Alabama and

other Southern States. Thence our route of travel was westerly up

that river through the present territory of Oklahoma, up onto broad

open plains to Sante Fe, Albuquerque, thence down the Rio Grande to

near El Paso, thence to Tucson, to the Pimo villages, down the Gila

to the Colorado, where Fort Yuma now is, thence across the Great

American Desert, and so through arable California to Los Angeles, to

San Pedro, thence by Barque Hector, by sea, to San Francisco.

Some little distance from Ft. Smith, our route of travel was mostly

through low valley lands with a number of rather large streams,

with considerable rain, hence our progress was rather slow. After

going about 150 miles, my leg became seriously injured from a horse

floundering in the mud. This injury in such surroundings grew

rapidly more serious. Two reputable medical men in the train gave

me kind treatment and rather gloomy prognostications, hinting at

the possibilities of amputation. Though they knew no more than this

half-baked doctor, everything tended to make me despondent.

Just then a young man, whose wealthy father lived in Ft. Smith, and

who knew of the friendship of old John Wheeler and family for me,

said: "Young fellow, you are in a bad fix. You had better return and

let those Wheeler girls and their mother take care of you and you'll

soon be as good as new--don't say you can't stand the trip--you can

ride horse-back. There is one of my best horses, saddle, bridle

and lariat; take them and deliver them to my father at Ft. Smith."

Others thought well of this scheme, which rekindled a tender feeling

for one of the half-breed Cherokee girls and made me feel homesick.

So it did not take much persuasion to start me on the back out trip,

dear old Charlie Hudspeth having refunded all I had paid him.

Soon afterwards I was taken in for the night by a Choctaw family.

Though full blooded Indians, they were intelligent, well-to-do

people, who treated me with royal hospitality. I made myself solid

with them by saying my people knew their's well and were always on

friendly terms with them before removal from Southern States. When

they were told of my having lived with the Wheeler family, though

the latter were Cherokees, they made me feel very much at home.

There was a continuous rain and they prevailed on me to remain

until its subsidence--which was not for several days--and had the

effect to overflow a large stream nearby. Remembering some of my bad

luck in high water when a mail carrier, I determined not to take

any chances now--happy indeed in having so good a stopping place.

Cleanliness and rest worked wonders in my injured leg within the few

days thus waterbound.

NEW ACQUAINTANCES.

There came along a pack train bound for California and camped on

the opposite side of the stream. Tired waiting the subsidence of

the flood they hired the Indians to help them across. The Indians

constructed a rude raft, on which the trappings and cargoes of the

mules and their owners were placed and drawn with ropes across.

The Indians, almost naked, were in the water steering the mules

across--doing the job in splendid way.

This pack train turned out to be a part of a large wagon train,

several days in advance of them, whom, from the description, I knew

were traveling near my old party. When it came to paying the Indians

for their arduous ferry job, the packers did not have ready money

enough and, like so many others when dealing with Indians, did not

know the importance of being civil. The Indians were very indignant

and did not believe that they were short of the ready. Things began

to look serious.

ANOTHER START WEST.

My own physical condition was changing so rapidly for the better,

my old enthusiasm for the westward trip only required a little to

change my course in that direction; so, to relieve these fellows of

their dilemma, I offered to advance the balance due the Indians and

go along with them until we overtook their wagon train, when the

amount due me should be refunded. This was readily agreed to and the

Indians' claim amicably adjusted. The family with whom I had been

stopping would accept no compensation for their kindness to me, so I

bade them an affectionate adieu and departed.

In due time, traveling with the packers, we overtook their wagon

train; the amount due me was promptly repaid. My own old party was

reported several days ahead. We were then beyond low, swampy land,

onto broad, open plains on the border of the Kiowas, Comanches,

and other warlike tribes of Indians. We were at a point where most

of the teams had crossed from the South to the North side of the

Canadian river.

STRIKES OUT ALL ALONE.

I chose to follow the track of the lesser number, who continued up

on the southerly side of that great stream. I passed a number of

detached small parties, but soon found myself beyond all in sight,

and alone on broad, treeless plains, with now and then a clump of

willows or a lone cotton tree, showing where the river was. Thus

passed two anxious days. During the afternoon of the third day,

several shallow ponds of water were crossed, some a quarter of a

mile in extent, but only a few inches deep.

A little after dark, I found quite a beaten track, showing a large

number of wagons had recently passed; felt somewhat relieved, hoping

soon to fall in with some one.

A PLUNGE IN THE OVERFLOW.

Perhaps about nine o'clock, I came to a body of water, which I

mistook for another shallow pond, such as had been previously

encountered, but in a little time I was in swimming water, in a

strong, rapid current. The horse, as badly panic stricken as the

rider, could not, or would not swim and was soon rolling down the

current like a barrel. For some time I could not detach my feet from

the little yankee stirrups. When released, I swam until able to

stand a moment with head above water.

The horse was out in the current and neighed pitifully for help.

Swimming out to him and catching the bridle, we successfully landed

on the same side we started in. Although it was a cool evening,

instead of having my only coat on, it hung carelessly on the horn of

the saddle, and my Alabama saddle bags and a pair of blankets were

thrown loosely across the saddle with some provisions. All these

floated down the river. With the lariat, which had fortunately been

saved, the horse was picketed on the leeside of a bunch of willows.

Covered with the wet saddle blanket, he fared fairly well in the

luxuriant grass. To save myself from freezing, I cut with my big

jack-knife a lot of willow twigs, and piled them in a heap. Wiggling

myself into the center of this, I found a perfect shield from the

raw wind and never had a more comfortable, sound sleep all night.

I was disgusted with myself in the morning to discover this was the

crossing place of the Canadian river of the emigrants who had been

traveling up the North side and that when striking their road the

night before, 'twas my fate to take the wrong end and was on the

back track to Fort Smith, when entering the river.

FELL IN WITH THE MILITARY.

I resumed a westerly course next morning. After traveling all day,

badly scared by plenty of signs of hostile Indians, was overjoyed

to see friendly camp-fires ahead, which proved to be a military

escort which accompanied us to Santa Fe. They treated me hospitably,

after hearing my tale of woe. Up to the time I got into the river,

although I had some provisions, I had no relish for them, owing, I

suppose, to my fear of Indians, and the uncertainty about the route

of travel. I was well prepared now to fill up with the ample lay-out

presented by my military entertainers. The incident was mentioned

in their report to the Government of Captain Mercey's Santa Fe

expedition from Fort Smith Spring of 1849.

STRIKES HANDS WITH OLD FRIENDS.

I rejoined my old party the next afternoon; was received with

surprise and great enthusiasm. The horse and outfit was returned to

his owner and dear old Charlie Hudspeth treated me as a returned

lost son, sound and well every way, and fully reinstated me as

one of the party. I was a general chore boy, looking up camping

sites, starting fires, procuring wood and water, driving team, or

looking out for stock; most of the time traveled on foot. While a

mail carrier, I had learned to ride and stay on most any kind of a

"critter." So while enroute, I rode everything placed in my charge,

steer, cow, mule or bronco, thus I had many a lift when tired of

tramping.

We passed through safely the many warlike tribes before reaching

New Mexico. By the time we reached Santa Fe, we realized it would

take a much longer time to make the trip clear across than at first

anticipated and that provisions would be short.

FOOD SCARCE.

We were disappointed, too, in not being able to replenish by

purchase from the Mexicans--only in stinted quantities. We were

disappointed also in seeing but few buffaloes, from which source

we had expected to get all the additional meat we might require.

At that time there were still millions roaming the plains. Their

habit was to start from Canada at the approach of winter, feeding

Southward, wintering in Northern Texas, Mexico and Indian Territory,

starting Northward, as spring approached, back to their Northern

feeding grounds.

In traveling down the Great Rio Grande Valley, a very rich country

from Albuquerque to near El Paso, we were some times able to buy

beans. Further on we found an abundance of muskeet--a wild locust

which bore a sort of bean, fine food for man or beast. But we had

to live on restricted rations for a long time. _It was an unwritten

law that women and children should eat all they wanted._ Being a

stunted, undersized boy, just taking on new growth, consequently

requiring more than a fully developed man, it was a particular

hardship not to be let in as a juvenile with the women. All of us

soured. We grew crabbed and cross, forgetting what the Good Book

says: "A soft answer turneth away wrath." There were bickerings and

quarrels and bloodshed.

Presuming on our escape from Indian depredations, we began to grow

careless. After leaving the Rio Grande Valley, we camped one night

without water,--disappointed in not reaching the Rio Mimbles. Next

morning we started early without breakfast. Nearly every one on

horse-back shoved out ahead. Soon there was a line of timber in

sight, where we felt sure there was water. Having a small band

of cattle under my charge, one of them was mounted, and the band

crowded ahead. In a little while I was some distance ahead of the

train of wagons when, as if springing out of the ground, three

Apache Indians, splendidly mounted, confronted me.

ALONE CONFRONTED BY INDIANS.

My feelings might have found utterance as follows: "Well, boy, there

is one chance in a thousand for you to get out of this alive--that

one chance consists in concealing from them that you are scared

nearly to death." Having picked up considerable Spanish during the

short contact with the Mexicans, which the border tribes all speak

fluently, they were invited to go into camp with me, that we had

some nice presents for them, naming such things as were thought

most acceptable to them. In the meantime I had dismounted from

my steed and advanced to the one supposed to be the leader and

offered to shake hands with him. After a little conversation with

his fellows, he seized my hand, not so as to give me pain, but with

a grip it would have been useless to pull away from had he willed

it otherwise. Being right over me on his horse, he looked at me so

piercingly that the effect was transmitted to the region of the

stomach, where there was a death-like chilliness. My weight being

less, perhaps, than 100 pounds, my uppermost thought was, how easy

for him to lift me across his saddle and, with his comrades, fly

away to the mountains and have a war dance while burning me at the

stake. All this while he was telling how good he thought me.

To my surprise the invitation was accepted, and we took up the line

of march for camp, one of the yellow devils in the rear and one on

each side of the little band of cattle and the badly scared boy who

kept jabbering away, afraid to stop lest his knees would give way.

They acted on my suggestion to go out and get some horses and mules

and bring them in, as we wanted some and would give good prices.

ALONE AGAIN.

Being left alone by them, I was glad to pile down on the side of

the road and wait for the wagon train and go to camp with them. No

matter what their original purpose, these Indians never returned to

our camp. Another and bigger band had just returned into the same

mountain and doubtless were joined by my entertainers with a drove

of stock stolen from the Mexicans; but a band of our troops followed

and recovered the stock after a sharp fight. These border tribes had

for all time gone on such forays according to their own sweet will

and got away with the spoils before the poor Mexicans got ready to

hit back. Through our late acquisition of territory, these Mexicans

received protection from our troops. This the Indians resented,

regarding the border settlements as their special preserves, the

engagement referred to being the commencement of an interminable

war. Our party escaped without trouble, but those behind us and poor

Mexicans by the score were destroyed before the almost annihilation

of all these border tribes.

REACHES CALIFORNIA.

After considerable privation, we finally reached California by

crossing the Colorado river, where Fort Yuma now is, into the

Great American Desert, where we found things more tolerable than

anticipated. A large area of the so-called desert is far below the

sea-level and there had been a vast inflow of fresh water the past

season from the great Colorado river. A rank growth of green grass

and other vegetation awaited our coming and deep pools furnished an

abundance of pure, cool water. We at last reached settlements where

we could replenish our stores and where there was plenty of game.

LOST HIS OXEN.

Soon after reaching the first settlement, a loose yoke of oxen was

lost through my carelessness and I stopped behind to hunt them. I

found them after looking thirty-six hours, just at dark the second

night, and started with them, on foot, to overtake my party. I had

nothing to eat during the time, traveled all night, and next morning

at eight o'clock met two of my comrades starting back to hunt me.

They had killed a fine, fat deer, and had a four quart bucket full

of stewed venison with dumplings made of unbolted flour, a repast

fit to set before a king. That layout was set before me and the void

from a forty-eight hours' fast was soon filled. The boys stared at

the almost empty pail, being told 'twas the first eaten since we

parted two days before.

IN GOD'S COUNTRY AT LAST.

One was justified in feeling, under the circumstances, that at last

he had found "God's Country."

We now leisurely moved along and reached Los Angeles in due time,

where our party broke up. Some sold off their stock; others drove

on, or packed through to the southern gold fields; others took

shipping for San Francisco. Having nothing to go farther on, it was

necessary for me to find work. My employer was old Abel Stearnes,

an old settler, a Scotchman, who had married into a noble Castilian

family. He was well-to-do, a merchant. When asked what I could do,

I replied: "O, anything." "Which means you are trained to nothing!"

was his reply. I said: "Not exactly, I am a doctor." With a grunt

he mumbled out "You are a h---- of a looking doctor!"

GOT A JOB.

Agreeing with him on that proposition, I replied: "Well, I don't

expect to doctor you, but surely you can use me some way to your

benefit and to mine." After thus tantalizing me and taking my

measure, he called a peon, whom I found to be an easy boss, and I

was placed beside himself digging and shoveling, took his gait,

which was much more easy than the Southern darkey. Later on the

old man came out and said: "Come in now, we are going to have

dinner." This first invitation for a square meal within six months

was embarrassing. In my thread-bare, unkempt condition, I felt

myself unfit to dine with an elegant family. The old Don took in

the situation and walked away, to reappear after perhaps an hour,

renewing his invitation, as I supposed, to dine with the servants;

but there was a retinue of them to wait on me, no one else at

the table. 'Twas a magnificent spread, fit to set before royalty.

Knowing very little about liquor of any sort, I did not understand

the Don, when he said in setting a well-filled decanter before me:

"Here is some fine old dry Sherry; help yourself, it won't hurt

you." To verify his last assertion, he poured out a goblet full

and tossed it down, smacked his lips, then poured out another for

me, which was disposed of as per his request, to discover that

there was nothing dry about the transaction except the half-starved

immigrant. The servants were amazed, and in a quiet way, had fun

among themselves to see the amount of provender absorbed, washed

down by the _dry_ liquid condiment. The wit of their party, a

bright Indian girl, said in Spanish: "He is little and long with

big room inside." They had their own fun, assuming my ignorance of

the language, as they spoke in Spanish. This was the commencement

of a pleasant stay with the family, as one of them. After a good

clean-up and fresh raiment obtained, I did not shovel and pick

with the peon any more. I was placed apparently on waiting orders

at fair wages while apparently the old Don sized me up. Later on

he was taken aback when he found that my purpose was to reach San

Francisco as soon as possible. I hoped by being there to be sooner

placed in communication with Brother Richard. He then told me he had

purposed placing me in his large mercantile establishment, believing

the young immigrant to be a trustworthy and competent employe, he

wanted me to abandon all thought of San Francisco and the mines,

by remaining with him, as more likely to trace our Brother from

that point. When told that it was too late, that passage for San

Francisco had already been secured on the Barque Hector, then at San

Pedro, some twenty miles from Los Angeles, he paid me liberally for

my services, gave me a fine pair of Mexican blankets and provisions

for the trip.

TO TAKE SAIL.

Before declaring my plans and purposes to Don Abel, I had met in

Los Angeles the owner of the barque, who offered to take me up to

San Francisco on credit for part or all of the passage money. At

the port of San Pedro, there were so many wanting to go that it was

beyond the legal limit. All had to sign papers securing the owner

against prosecution for violating the law. The owner turned out to

be Capt. Alex Bell, brother to Col. Minter's wife, then living on

Mush Creek, near Pleasant Hill, in Alabama.

HEARS SAD TIDINGS.

In signing my name, he asked: "Are you one of the Alabama

Crumptons?" "Yes," was the reply. "Was Dick your brother?" "Yes."

"He's dead, poor fellow; died with cholera at Camargo when about to

start with Major Graham's party for the Coast." Seeing my distress

and shock from such intelligence, he said: "Be of good cheer, my

dear boy; Dick was a noble friend to me, I'll be a brother to you."

Of course this was comforting. Bell, besides cleaning up quite

a lot of money by his passengers, had bought a lot of produce on

speculation, jerked beef, dried grapes and corn in the ear. Upon

arrival in San Francisco and discharging the passengers, he bought

two corn shellers, the only such machines on the coast, and put me

to work with others shelling the corn. We did good work and were fed

well, an important item for us who had been so long on short rations.

The crew of the ship cleared out for the mines. A ship at anchor in

port requires considerable work and attention to keep everything in

shipshape, work landmen knew nothing about, but we consented to do

as best we knew. It wasn't long, however, before the officers of the

ship got overbearing and abusive. "D--n your eyes! Avast there!"

etc. We struck and went ashore.

NO PAY FOR SERVICES.

There was quite a sum due me beyond payment of my passage money.

This Bell refused to pay, except on condition that there was a

return to the ship and the job finished. Refusing to do this, the

balance was lost, although he promised to be a brother by proxy.

Others sued and got their money. Three others and myself found a job

burning charcoal and chopping cord wood from the scrub oaks on the

adjacent hills. I remarked to my comrades that I knew nothing about

such work. They said it was all right and they would give me a full

show and do most of the hard work. It was a standoff, by my cooking

and doing other camp duties and marketing our products. Thus we

earned enough to get an outfit for the mines.

AT ORO CITY.

We went on a little sloop to Sacramento and from there up the river

to where a man had laid out what he called Oro City. He hired us

to clear out snags and sawyers, so as to make Bear river navigable

down to its mouth into the Feather river, perhaps two miles below.

He offered us $12.00 a day without keep, or $8.00 a day and keep,

and a place to sleep in our blankets. To make a dead sure thing we

accepted the $8.00 per day and keep. The old man had a nice family,

a good, motherly wife and two grown daughters, who made it pleasant

for us. We got along and gave satisfaction. We noticed, however,

frequent half and sometimes whole days off when we were idle.

Notwithstanding such loss of time, we did not complain at first, but

grew restive and determined to resume our tramp to the mines. When

coming to a settlement we fell far short of getting what we thought

justly due. For Sunday we were charged $4.00 for a day's board and

the same for each day laid off during the week and $2.00 for each

half day that the old fellow failed to furnish work.

After accepting these harsh terms, the wise guy of our party

vouchsafed the following: "Well, old Rooster, although masquerading

as an honest old Missouri farmer, in thus tricking us boys, had we

stayed much longer, we'd have been in your debt. In this transaction

you have out-yanked the shrewdest Yankee we have thus far met."

IN THE MINES.

We struck the mines at the mouth of Deer creek, where it empties in

the Yuba river, and worked along the banks, finally settling in a

comfortable camp where the splendid little mountain city, Nevada,

has since grown up. We were lucky in soon having good returns for

our work, beyond what the Oro City man had promised us, and so

continued until the spring of 1850. Then we secured a promising

layout on the upper South Yuba river, perhaps thirty miles away,

and commenced active operations to turn the river as soon as the

snow water subsided. Results were not satisfactory, blowing into the

Yuba Dam all our previous earnings. I returned to Sacramento, lured

thither by a $200.00 per month job offered me on my way up to the

mines.

But the immigration of 1850 was arriving, and Sacramento was full

of idle men, glad to work on any terms offered, so my traps were

shouldered for a start back for the mines, where a new location was

made.

AT ROUGH-AND-READY.

Met with good success during the following winter, in the spring

of 1851 another change was made, to Auburn, then called Woods' Dry

Diggings. Here I staid with good success until the fall of 1853. I

determined to visit the old folks at home and to finish my medical

studies at New Orleans. Accompanying me was my dear old mining

partner, Tom Dixon, of Marengo county.

STARTS BACK HOME.

We started from our California home, Auburn, so as to have several

days in San Francisco before the sailing of the Panama steamer.

He found a Dr. A. S. Wright, who advertised himself as "Banker

and Assayer," who offered Dix a bigger price than anyone else

would give for his gold dust, provided he would take draft on New

Orleans, payable in sixty days after sight. Besides the $3,000.00

thus disposed of, he had quite a little reserve, which he persisted

in "toting" on his person--a source of worry and nervous anxiety,

contributing to the general breakdown that followed.

IN A WRECK.

We left San Francisco in the crack steamship _Winfield Scott_ with

an opposition steamer racing us from the start via Nicaragua. At

midnight, the second day out, our ship struck a rock and sank. There

was a calm sea and plenty of time to save all hands and land them on

an adjacent island, Aracapa, with a limited amount of provisions,

which were doled out stintedly twice a day. There was rarely enough

given out to go around. Out of 500 souls, perhaps as many as

twenty-five would get nothing. Tom was nearly always one of them.

My little allowance was always shared with him. When reproved for

not rushing in with me to secure his share, he replied: "O, Kiah, I

don't like to crowd." When assured he would have to go hungry, as

I wouldn't divide any longer, he got a move on him and got there

with the foremost. There was no water on the island, but the tanks

of fresh water on the steamer remained intact and were brought on

shore in boats. One day, when assisting in this work and undertaking

to help myself to a drink, the cup was knocked from my lips by one

of the crew, who said: "Let that water alone until I tell you to

drink, you ----." After the fellow was pretty badly used up, the cup

was refilled and drank with gusto, with no further molestation. One

usually makes friends when showing pluck to resent such an outrage,

and this fellow slunk like a whipped cur. When the affray was over,

Dick was hard by gritting his teeth, with fists doubled up, just

ready for war.

ON TO PANAMA.

After a ten days stay, we sailed pleasantly to Panama. We had

hard experiences in crossing the Isthmus. The railroad had been

completed but a few miles at its eastern terminus. As a large

number of our comrades had determined to cross on foot, instead of

paying a fabulous price for mule hire, we determined to be of the

number. Much of my stuff was thrown away to make my pack as light

as possible, but Dick was in love with all he had, which he wanted

to take home as souvenirs, besides the gold dust strapped to his

person. With his heavy load, he soon began to lag; first one article

and then another was transferred from his shoulders to mine. He was

almost heart broken when we were forced to lighten cargo from time

to time, abandoning different things on the march, in order to keep

up with our comrades. Upon my releasing him from his incubus of gold

dust, he stepped rather spryly for a time. I kept him in front and

pushed him along, bullied and scared him by fear of robbers, who

we heard of attacking, robbing and some times killing others. Poor

fellow, he was used up and collapsed upon reaching the steamer. He

was abed most of the time until we reached New Orleans.

IN NEW ORLEANS.

Upon presentation of his $3,000.00 check, not on a bank, but on a

respectable mercantile house, we were told that they knew nothing of

the San Francisco Banker and Assayer. As the check was not due for

sixty days, they explained the funds might be received with which to

pay it.

We passed over to Mobile after Dick rested a few days, where,

fortunately, we found an old friend of his. It was a great relief to

me, as poor Dick had been a burden. Besides the terrible ordeal of

other vicissitudes through which we had just passed, was the worry

of the probable loss of his $3,000.00 cheap-john check. He was in

a state of mental as well as physical collapse. As soon as able

to travel, his friends kindly escorted Dixon to his home, up the

Tombigbee to Demopolis.

FINDS HIS BROTHER.

I found brother William in Mobile, where he had a fine position in

business and stood well socially.

A returned successful Californian was something of a show, a rather

annoying feature of my stay in Mobile, which prompted an early exit

for Camden and out to Pine Apple where our people lived. After a

nice visit, finding the old folks up in pretty good shape, I started

for New Orleans, with a view of resuming my medical studies. Upon my

arrival at Mobile, I found poor brother William down with pneumonia.

DETAINED IN MOBILE.

Although under the care of two of the most eminent doctors of that

city, my trip to New Orleans was abandoned to remain with him as

nurse. After a long siege they gave him up as beyond recovery.

This being known, brought what was intended as a farewell greeting

from a host of old friends who comforted him on his being resigned

and prepared for the change. Although having little hope myself,

I tried to dispel from his mind the idea that a fatal ending was

inevitable, and partially succeeded. Although they abandoned the

case, the doctors were asked to give him a little champagne. They

flippantly responded: "Give him all he wants." Two quart bottles

were obtained and the poor fellow smacked his lips after having

a small wine glass full. This I kept up every hour. The effect

was marvelous. He was so revived that I felt justified in leaving

him to take a little rest and sleep, after stupidly repeating the

Doctor's words: "give him all he wants," to those left in charge.

They had seen the cautious small doses given and at intervals of

an hour. After more than an hour's refreshing slumber, I found the

poor fellow in great distress, retching and vomiting, hovering near

life's end. After being snatched from the jaws of death by the

judicious use of an agent, he was almost gone by the injudicious

overdosing with the same.

Though no more than an inexperienced, half-baked doctor, no other

was called and no more chances taken of his being killed through

kindness, not to say innate stupidity. After this episode, the

invalid progressed rapidly to full recovery and we went to Camden

within a month; there he was soon fully restored. He abandoned a

fine position and prospects in Mobile and remained in Wilcox and in

the fall was elected to office by the largest majority ever given

in the county. In this position, he was exposed a good deal to

vicissitudes of weather and in time had another attack of pneumonia,

which took him off--a noble, true man.

Business complications of my old friend Dixon demanded

IMMEDIATE ATTENTION IN CALIFORNIA,

and he prevailed on me to return and act as his agent. The poor

fellow turned the collection of his $3,000.00 protested check over

to me, as business agent, whose knowledge of business was almost as

limited as his own. I was fortunate, however, in seeking assistance

in proper quarters. The check, having been presented when due, but

not paid, went to protest. Upon calling at the New Orleans house on

my way to California they predicted Wright would not be found on my

arrival.

Added to the wear and tear of nursing brother William and other,

perhaps, unnecessary exposures, after two weeks stay on the Isthmus,

I was attacked with Panama fever before the steamer reached

Acapulco; but in cooler weather, by the time we had reached San

Francisco, I was in fairly good shape. Upon my arrival, I was

fortunate enough to be placed in contact with two of the biggest

banking houses in town, who, after some fun with me, as the victim

of the agent, gave me all the aid possible in recovering the money.

Old Wright was badly scared and humiliated at the exposure, which

came sooner than he anticipated. He fillibustered, quibbled, said

he had forwarded the money and knew it had been paid at the other

end of the line, but he was outgeneraled on every turn and finally

refunded every dollar, which, less a small sum for incidentals, was

sent to Dixon in a check on a Mobile bank. Within a short time,

Wright and the old bankers who helped hold him up, all went to the

wall.

BACK TO THE MINES AGAIN.

After getting the Dixon matter settled, I left San Francisco for my

old haunts in the mines at Auburn. Not a great while afterwards,

heard from a dear old mining partner, who some time previous left

for the north, when I left Rough-and-Ready for Auburn. He wrote me

he had a valuable discovery at what is now Yreka, near the Oregon

line, requesting me to join and share with him all there was in it.

Usually rather reserved about exposing my plans for the future, my

intended prospects to join Tom Ward got to be known among others,

by an enterprising thief, who went through my effects one night

and stole most of my ready means on the eve of my departure.

With plenty of help, he was captured and my money recovered.

The necessary law's delay to appear against him knocked out my

contemplated trip. The fellow was finally tried, convicted, and

served a term in the penitentiary. While waiting for this, I bought

into the old Rough-and-Ready mine at Forest Hill, first one share,

one-eighth interest--had but little to do with it, but, as others

got discouraged, secured additional interests, struggled hard, lived

stintedly, and when at last the mine began to yield fair returns,

owned five-eighths interest. I closed out in five years with more

money than sense, and

RETURNED TO ALABAMA,

purposing to first finish my studies in medicine, then to buy a

plantation and the darkies thereon. My original purpose was to enter

Tulane University, New Orleans, but the Medical Department of the

State University in Mobile was chosen. Scores of people knew me and

I was soon a social lion, a bad predicament for a student anxious

to cram and learn all possible in a given time. At the end of the

term I felt too green to submit to an examination, which made it

necessary to attend another term to secure the degree. This I did at

another Institution, and later an honored professional standing was

attained.

HIS OPINION ABOUT SLAVERY.

Following close on the term in Mobile, the spring and part of the

summer were spent in Wilcox and Dallas, visiting among relatives

and old friends of our family. Perhaps it was to our cousin, Ulma

Crumpton, my views on the negro question were expressed about thus:

"Well, my purpose in leaving California was to finally settle down

on a plantation with the ownership of as many darkies as my means

would buy, but after being away from the institution so long and

seeing the harrassing cares and annoyances connected with managing

and providing for the creatures, my sympathies are with those of

you who are responsible to God and man for their humane treatment.

The darkey has the best of it. I would not swap places with you. I

wouldn't accept as a gift the best plantation and darkies thereon

and be forced to continue as such owner."

[Illustration: HOME OF DR. H. J. CRUMPTON, PIEDMONT, CALIFORNIA]

Part Two

By W. B. Crumpton

The Adventures of W. B. Crumpton, going to and returning from

California, including his Lecture, "The Original Tramp, or How a

Boy Got through the Lines to the Confederacy"

[Illustration: Decoration]

HOW I BEGAN TO LECTURE.

THE following is about the way I tell it:

The story I am to tell relates my own personal adventures, which I

often told around the fire-side, with no dream of its ever assuming

the shape of a lecture. My old friend, Col. J. T. Murfee, President

of Howard College, insisted that I should turn it into a lecture.

My reply was: "Some day, when I have time, I may sit down and write

it out, dressing it up with beautiful language, weaving in some

poetry, and then branch out as a full fledged lecturer." I suppose

the leisure time never would have come and probably the lecture

never been delivered but for a fool-hardy spell that possessed me on

one occasion when I was in Mt. Sterling, Ky. A brother said: "Our

Baptist young people want you to deliver a lecture. You are going

to be here several days. Could you not do so?" And I promptly said

"Yes." The next question was: "What is the name of the lecture?"

I had never thought of that before, but I blurted out: "How a

boy got through the Lines to the Confederacy." "How much do you

charge?" That was a new question too, but I ventured to say: "About

one-half." So it was arranged and a dodger was gotten out by the

preacher and printer headed: "War, War, War." It was the time of

the Spanish-American war and it ran about this way: "Dr. W. B.

Crumpton, of Georgetown, Ky., being in our city for a few days

has kindly consented to deliver his _famous lecture_ at the Court

House tonight at 7:30 o'clock for the benefit of the Baptist Young

People's Union. It is a rare opportunity our citizens have to hear

this _distinguished_ lecturer. Come one, come all. A treat awaits

you. _Admission Ten Cents_." The old people concluded, as long as

the price was so small, that it was only a funny story I was going

to relate to the young people and they were conspicuous by their

absence.

After spending a nervous afternoon, I went out to the Court House

and found about a hundred and fifty young people and children

gathered. I said to myself: "You have made yourself a fool now.

These children will all be asleep in about ten minutes, and you will

be ashamed of yourself the balance of your life for attempting to

lecture." When I was through with the story, only two very small

kids were asleep, so I took it as a good indication that I had

something worth while. I returned to my home, taking with me some

of the fine circulars for the amusement of my family, and concluded

to make a further test by giving a free lecture in the College

Chapel. It was well advertised and probably five hundred people were

present, many old veterans and a large number of students. When

I was through, parties congratulated me, and I concluded that I

could afford to continue spinning the yarn. So I have delivered the

lecture in a great many places, wherever the young people or women

would get up an audience.

The lecture was called the "Original Tramp; or How a boy got through

the lines to the Confederacy." One pious old sister who heard it

suggested that the name be changed to: "How the Lord took care of

a boy while going through the lines," and I cheerfully accept the

amended form.

It is not a religious lecture. The boy I am to tell about was not

working at religion much, though a member of the church. But I hope

there will be discovered the marks of an over-ruling Providence

running like a silver thread through all the story. He has believed,

for many years, the Lord had him in hand, though he knew it not,

preparing him for the task that has been his for many years. If some

reader shall come to believe in the Guiding Hand in his or her own

life, I shall be happy.

The lecture began with my return from California; but I have

concluded to give the whole narrative, beginning with my first

start to California, and let the reader pick out where the "Famous

Lecture" begins.

Chapter I

A boy's best friend; A boy without ambition; "A sucker ready to

bite at any bait"; Remembers his brother's counsel; Off to sea;

Completely transformed.

I once heard a blind man sing--I remember one line of the chorus:

"A BOY'S BEST FRIEND IS HIS MOTHER."

How true is that and the poor boy doesn't realize it until the

mother is taken from him. After she is gone out of the home, the

world is never again what it was to him.

My home was broken up by the death of my mother when I was only

thirteen. I became a wanderer. Sometimes I worked on a farm,

sometimes I went to school, after a fashion. When my brother,

an "old forty-niner," as the first gold-hunters in California

were called, visited relatives at Pleasant Hill in Dallas county,

he found me in school. He thought that travel would be the best

schooling for me. So he asked me one day how I would like to go to

California. My answer in the negative amazed him. I was perfectly

content to remain where I was. I was honest about it. I had been to

Montgomery, Selma, Cahaba and Prattville, and had frequently seen

steam boats on the Alabama--had actually ridden on one--had but one

desire as to travel ungratified. I wanted some day to go to Mobile

and then to East Mississippi to see my kin. I had determined to make

that trip _if I lived to be grown_; beyond that I had no ambition to

see the world.

This satisfied condition indicated to my brother that

I WAS WITHOUT AMBITION.

This distressed him no little. Through another party he approached

me next time. I was asked if I would be willing to go to California

to look after some business for my brother; then to return if

I desired. To this proposition, I readily consented. It seems

ludicrous, indeed, now to think of sending an ignorant boy on such

a journey, to "look after business;" but I fell into the scheme and

felt my importance as never before.

My brother was wise and knew the ways of the world and was kind

enough to accompany me as far as he could. First he took me down

the Alabama to Mobile, then sent me alone up the M. & O. (the first

railroad I ever saw) to Enterprise, Miss., to visit my relatives

beyond there in Jasper county. I hired a horse and buggy from a Mr.

Edmonson and drove out twenty-four miles to my brother-in-law's

home. Returning, he accompanied me to Montgomery by boat, thence

by rail to Savannah, Charleston, Wilmington, Richmond, Baltimore,

Washington, Philadelphia and finally to New York, two days before

the time for the steamer to sail. We lay over a day at most of the

cities mentioned to give me a chance to learn some of the ways of

the world. I was a

"SUCKER, READY TO BITE AT ANY BAIT."

I doubt if ever a boy started on so long a trip as green as I. One

incident will show my ignorance. While in New York, one afternoon, I

saw a great commotion on the streets. Going out I saw my first fire

engine. The engine was of the old kind, with long ropes attached,

pulled by men. There the poor fellows were toiling over the rough

streets, tugging at the ropes and frantically appealing to the

crowds of people who lined the sidewalks to come to their aid. I had

read of great fires destroying large cities and turning multitudes

out as homeless wanderers, and I made sure that just such a thing

was about to happen to New York. I was paralyzed at the utter

indifference of the people who gazed unmoved at the heroic firemen

and turned a deaf ear to their appeals. I could stand it no longer,

so I leaped out into the street and seized the rope. I was a tall,

slim, awkward lad, about eighteen years old, thin as a match, pale

as a ghost and had on a long Jim Swinger. The crowd cheered, but I

didn't know what it was about. The firemen encouraged me, of course.

"Go it, my laddie, brave boy; now we'll save the town," were some

of the cheering remarks the firemen spoke as I tugged away with all

my might on the rope. "Stand up, my son," was another, as I slipped

on the cobble stones. The fire reached, I was put in position with

the others to pump the machine. I knew nothing of what was going on,

for I was intent on trying to save the town. After awhile, by the

awkwardness of some fellow who held the nozzle (of course it was all

accidental) the stream struck me full in the breast and I was nearly

drowned. A great shout went up from the crowd, and I realized that

the eyes of several thousand spectators, who had been drawn to the

fire, were centered on me. I guessed afterward that the fire, which

I never saw, had been subdued, and they were having a little sport

at my expense.

I turned loose the pump as though I had been shot, drew my overcoat

tight about me, for it was very cold, and darted through the crowd,

going I knew not whither. Fortunately

MY BROTHER'S COUNSEL CAME TO MY AID:

"If you ever get lost in a city, don't try to find your way back,

but hail the first hack you see, and tell the driver to take you

to your hotel." This I did, and as the carriage rumbled over the

streets across several blocks, I was wishing and praying that I

might get to my room without being seen by my brother. He was not

in the lobby of the hotel, and I was congratulating myself, as I

wearily toiled up the stairs, that I had missed him, and he would

never know of my misfortune; but I was doomed to disappointment.

Opening the door, there he was in the room! As I stood before him,

bedraggled with mud and water, his eyes opened wide and he took

me in. "Where have you been?" he exclaimed. I gasped out: "To the

fire!" He was not a prayer-meeting man, and I will not repeat his

language. As he rolled on the bed, yelling like a Comanche Indian,

I was utterly disgusted with him. I saw nothing to laugh about. I

have never helped at a fire since then, and when I hear the fire

alarm and see the engine in its mad rush, I am inclined to want to

go in the other direction.

OFF TO SEA

is a beautiful thing to read about, but it has a serious side. I

didn't mind separating with my brother so much. He had introduced me

to the captain and purser of the steamer, besides these, I knew not

a soul. I was much interested, for the hour or two before nightfall,

watching the shipping. Everything was new to me, but darkness came

down upon us before we were out of the harbor. I shall never forget

the sensation when the vessel struck the first billow of the rolling

ocean. As the old vessel lurched forward, and her timbers began to

creak, some one said: "That's pretty strong for a starter." Another

said: "Shouldn't wonder if we didn't have a rough voyage." And

yet another: "It is always dangerous at sea in March." For the

first time I began to get alarmed. I watched the swinging lamps,

the supper tables that looked as if they were going over and spill

all the dishes; the sick passengers as they flew either to their

staterooms or to the upper deck. Only a little while elapsed before

I was in bed myself, wishing for my brother and abusing myself for

ever undertaking the trip.

Oh! the desolation and loneliness of that horrid night as I rolled

with every motion of the vessel! I never slept a wink. Next morning

I looked out of the port-hole and saw the mad waves of the ocean. To

my surprise the sun was shining; but it looked to me like a storm

was raging. I learned afterwards that the Atlantic is always rough

and that I was the only one on board who was much alarmed. Three

days and nights I kept my bed from sheer fright and home-sickness.

I know it was not sea-sickness, for I tested myself, time and time

again, afterwards and never had the first symptom.

I had about made up my mind that I would never see the home folks

again, but would die in a few days and be buried in the ocean. The

third day the old Captain came in on his rounds of inspection. When

he found that I was not sick, he shouted: "Pshaw, boy, get out of

this and be a man; get on deck and get a sniff of the salt air and

you will be all right in two minutes and as hungry as a wolf. Out,

out with you; be a man." In less time than it takes to write it

I WAS COMPLETELY TRANSFORMED.

All my fears were gone and I found the Captain's words true. As I

looked at the hundreds of people on the open deck, there were eight

hundred passengers, all happy and cheerful, I felt disgraced to have

been such a coward. There was the boundless ocean on every side. No

sign of land anywhere and, strange to say, I was not a bit afraid.

The reassuring words of the Captain had saved me. _Many a poor

fellow has given up and gone down in the battle of life, who might

have been saved if someone had only spoken the cheering words in

time._

Down through the tropical islands to Aspinwall, now called Colon,

across the Isthmus of Darien, where the Panama Canal is now being

constructed, on the railroad to the ancient city of Panama and

up the beautiful Pacific into the lovely harbor of Acapulco,

Mexico, where we stopped a day for coal, and finally through the

Golden Gate; we dropped anchor in the Bay of San Francisco, just

twenty-four days from New York. Not a soul in all the great city did

I know; but I was soon in the hands of the friends of my brother. I

felt like Mrs. Partington when she struck land after being to sea,

she exclaimed: "Thank the Lord for _terra cotta_," and I promised

myself never again to get on an ocean steamer.

Chapter Two

Looking for a job; A hostler; In San Francisco; Packing gold

through the streets; Moves to Oakland; Impulse to shout "Hurrah

for Jeff Davis."

IN THE diggings, among the miners, I spent three months, "keeping

bach," with a genteel old Scotchman, in my brother's cabin on the

mountain side. From the little stoop in front of my cabin, I could

see villages of Digger Indians, Chinese and Greasers, and people

from every nation of the earth.

Later I was introduced to a Bostonian who was sheriff of Placer

county. He had been told I was

LOOKING FOR A JOB.

He turned his cold, grey eyes on me and said: "I knew old Crump--he

was never afraid of work; but Southern boys generally feel

themselves above it. I wonder if you are that way. I want somebody

to be here about the court house and jail all the time to keep

things cleaned up and to feed and curry my four horses. Can you

curry horses? Are you ashamed of it? Suppose sometime when you were

with your overalls on, currying horses, a pretty girl comes along

the street, guess you'd run up in the loft and hide, eh? Now, for

that sort of work for a boy about your age, I have fifty dollars a

month and grub. What do you say?" My! how he did fire the questions

at me and how his grey eyes did snap and pierce me through! Fifty

dollars a month was a big thing in my eyes. I was a little on my

mettle to show the Boston Yankee what a Southern boy could do if he

tried. So I became

A HOSTLER

for nine months. I was used to all kinds of work on the farm, but

never had any occasion to become an expert--with the curry comb. I

was privileged to belt a pistol about me and guard a prisoner while

he did the work, if I liked; but generally I preferred doing the

work myself.

For the benefit of my own boys and others who may chance to read

these lines, I want to record it: the three months roughing it in

the miner's cabin, and the nine months currying Sheriff Bullock's

horses, made a year of most valuable training for me. I learned more

that twelve months than in any of my life, except the years later in

the Civil War.

I was always fond of the girls. I was never in any place long before

I was well acquainted with a number of the nicest in the town.

Instead of running up in the loft to hide when they came along, many

a pleasant chat did I have, standing before the stable door with

my overalls on and my sleeves rolled up to my elbows. My brother,

returning from the States, took me

TO SAN FRANCISCO

and put me in school. Some of my leisure time he expected me to

look after his business. My ignorance of business methods is well

illustrated by the following incident: He went away, leaving a note

of something over three thousand dollars. It was in the hands of a

lawyer friend and was not due. He told me he would send me a draft

to pay that note.

I didn't know what a draft was; but it finally came in the mail by

the steamer which came once a month.

I could hardly sleep that night for fear somebody would steal it.

I felt sure something was going to happen to me before I got the

note paid. I had read of hold-ups at night, and even in day time

parties had been enticed into dark alleys and robbed. Next morning

it looked as if the bank would never open its doors. I passed and

repassed, afraid to stop and look in, for fear some one would

suspect I had some money and would lay a trap for me. Finally the

door opened and I was the first to enter. I presented the draft.

It was the proudest act of my life. The fellow looked at it, and

then at me, turned it over, looked on a book, cut his eye at me

again, then looked at his watch, asked me some more questions, then

went in a back room and was gone, oh! so long. "Surely," I began to

think, "maybe he will slip out of the back door and I will never

see my draft anymore." But finally he returned with another man. I

can't recall it all now, but after a while it was arranged and the

man asked: "What do you want for this?" "Want gold," was my reply.

I had heard of bank notes that were not good--there were no green

backs then. I was determined to be on the safe side. Nothing but

gold would satisfy me. "Mighty heavy for you to pack," he said, but

I knew of no other way. Two sacks were given me. My! how my eyes

opened as the money was counted into the sacks in $20 gold pieces. I

had never seen so much money before.

TAKING A SACK IN EACH HAND, I TRUDGED AWAY UP THE STREET.

Block after block was passed and finally I went up the stairway

and stood almost breathless in the lawyer's office. Depositing my

treasure on a chair, I said: "Mr. Anderson, that note is due today

and I have come to pay it." "All right, my boy, you could have

waited three days longer if you wished," was the lawyer's kind

reply. I had been impressed with the exact date and thought it so

fortunate that the steamer arrived just the day before the note fell

due. I thought something awful would happen if it was not promptly

settled, when due. I knew nothing of days of grace. "But what have

you in those sacks," queried the lawyer in a kindly tone. "That's

the money," I replied. Of course the laugh was on me. There I got my

first lesson in banking. The draft endorsed by me, would have suited

him much better than the two sacks of gold coin. So I was a "gold

bug" when William Jennings Bryan was a kid, and I have never changed

my platform.

I chanced one Saturday to go

TO OAKLAND,

quite a nice town then--now a great city. My brother had told me of

an old friend of his over there, Judge McKee, and I called on him.

I found him to be an intense Southerner. His wife was a Miss Davis,

from Mississippi, a kinswoman of Jeff Davis, afterwards President

of the Confederacy. It so happened that there was to be a gathering

of young people at his house that night and they were all Southern

people. Of course I was not slow to accept an invitation to remain

over. Such a company of fire-eating Southerners I had no idea could

be gotten together in California. All the talk was about secession.

All the songs were of the South. I heard Dixie for the first time.

I had been boarding with a New Bedford Yankee--an abolitionist, a

South hater. It required only a hint on the part of my new friends

to make a great change in my living. I went to Oakland College,

selected a room, and two days later I was out of the great city and

over the bay where every week I could visit my Southern friends and

talk "secesh." The more we talked, of course, the madder I got and

when the war broke out a few weeks later, the spirit of rebellion

was hot within me. It was a time of great excitement and great

danger. On a Friday night I went over to the city. The next morning

as I was dressing, I thought I heard an unusual tone in the voices

of the newsboys and I heard excited voices on the street and in the

hotel. When I reached the sidewalk I heard the cry: "Here's the

Morning Call! All about the great battle of Bull Run." "_Federal

troops falling back on Washington, pursued by the Rebel army. Rebel

army marching on the Capital._" My first impulse was to shout:

"HURRAH FOR JEFF DAVIS!"

Had I done so, I would have been torn to pieces by crowds surging

through the streets. All business was suspended, the streets were

jammed. I bought a paper and got out of the crowd as quickly as

possible. I hardly stirred out of the office of my friend all day,

so fearful was he that my mouth would get me into trouble. The next

day I attended Dr. Scott's church (Presbyterian) where I frequently

went because he was from New Orleans. His and the Methodist Church,

South, were the only churches which did not have flag staffs on

them. A mob gathered on Saturday night and burned the old doctor

in effigy and wrapped the lamp posts and the front of the church

in American flags. In the streets Sunday morning was a wild mob of

several thousand. The house was packed with an immense audience

of men--only two ladies present, one the wife of the preacher.

The sermon was a plain gospel sermon, with no reference whatever

to the surroundings. After the service a large company of police

fought their way through the crowd at the head of the carriage which

conveyed the preacher and his family. On the next steamer, the good

man sailed for New York, where I afterwards learned, he was pastor

of a Presbyterian church during the four years of the war. It is

impossible for one who was not there, to conceive of the excitement.

Dr. Scott had said nothing to provoke this outbreak, except at the

meeting of his Presbytery, he protested against the custom then

prevailing of putting flag staffs on the church buildings. Though

I was a Baptist, I did not affiliate much with the people of my

faith because they had gone into politics--the preacher's prayers

and sermons being leveled against the South. O. P. Fitzgerald, now

a Bishop in Nashville, was pastor of the little Methodist Church,

South, in the city. He had regular appointments at Oakland in the

afternoons. I became very fond of him and he knew me right well.

When the Southern Baptist Convention met in Nashville some years

ago, the aged Bishop was introduced to the body. After the close of

the session I approached him with the remarks: "You never saw me

before?" Instantly he replied: "Yes, sir, this is Crumpton. I knew

you by your voice." It had been thirty years since we had met. In

such an atmosphere as we breathed in California in those days, it

is not strange that Southern sympathizers began laying plans and

schemes for getting back South.

Chapter Three

A firm resolve broken; A layover at Pittsburg; At Beloit, Wis.;

The fall of Fort Donelson.

COMPANIES were secretly organized and meeting places agreed upon far

out on the eastern border. Some of these companies were butchered by

the Indians; others overtaken and captured by the Federal cavalry.

My brother, suspecting my state of mind, came out and we held a

conference. He had large interests there and some in Alabama. He

proposed to leave me there to look after his affairs while he came

through the lines; but that was not my mind at all. I announced

my purpose to go. He was opposed to my attempting the trip across

the plains no matter how strong the company that accompanied me.

He wanted me to run no risks. He planned the trip--back over the

same route to New York, thence to Wisconsin to the home of an old

friend, to remain until spring--meantime, corresponding with Col. U.

S. Grant, the military commander at Cairo, Ill., to get a pass, if

possible, on some pretext or other, through the lines.

MY FIRM RESOLVE

against ever again going on an ocean steamer had to be broken. I was

in a condition of mind which would have made me willing to attempt

the trip in a balloon. On November 30, 1861, I took the steamer.

On January 1st, I reached my destination at Beloit, Wis. The trip

was full of interesting incidents, but I mention only two. I made

the acquaintance on the steamer of a Marylander, who had been

in California for many years. His destination was Baltimore. He

expected to get through the lines and join the Confederate cavalry.

When we reached New York, he gave me a little four barrel Sharp's

pistol with one hundred cartridges. He expected to equip himself

with something more formidable. This, the only pistol I ever owned,

was one of the most harmless weapons I ever saw. I mention it now

only to introduce it later.

Reaching Panama and boarding the Isthmus train, I observed a frail

young fellow in the uniform of a lieutenant of U. S. Navy passing

through the train frequently, viewing with some care the passengers.

He seemed to let his gaze rest upon me each time, in a way to make

me a little uncomfortable. Was it possible, I thought, that somebody

had found out my secret and had sent this chap aboard to look me

out and arrest me when I reached Aspinwall? In the few hours ride

across the Isthmus, I worked myself up to a very unhappy state

of mind. It was after dark when we got aboard the steamer _North

Star_, the same I had gone out in, which the Government afterwards

purchased and turned into a gunboat. While the passengers were all

in line approaching the office to have their rooms assigned, I was

approached by the young officer who asked to see me. My heart flew

up in my throat. All my fears were about to be realized. I felt sure

I'd be on a man-of-war and in irons in a few minutes. I controlled

myself enough to protest that if I should leave the line I would

lose my place and have to drop back to the foot. "I want to see you

about that very thing," he said. "I have a room for you." My eyes, I

know were nearly as big as saucers, and I must have been pale as a

sheet. I made some reply and remained in line. "Come," he said in a

very earnest, tender tone, "I have seen the captain and he has given

me a room and permitted me to choose my own room-mate, and I have

picked you out." I felt reassured, and followed him to the identical

berth I had suffered tortures in nearly two years before.

In a little while he had discovered that I was Southern and he

turned out to be a Virginian, who was playing sick and was off on a

furlough. "There is nothing the matter with me," he said, "I expect

to be in the Confederate Navy in thirty days." But in spite of

this remark, his uniform scared me and I gave him no intimations of

my intentions. My old Maryland friend and I tied on to each other.

Neither of us sought acquaintances with others of the passengers.

On the way from Jersey City to Chicago, I was left while at dinner

at Altoona, Pa. My baggage of course went on.

THIS REQUIRED A LAY-OVER AT PITTSBURG,

where my belongings had been stopped. The day happened to be Sunday.

Growing tired of the hotel, I thought to walk about the city some

after dinner. Picking up the city directory I glanced through it

curiously and chanced to see the name "Crumpton." Over the river,

in Alleghaney City, there seemed to be quite a family of them. I

took the number of the street and went in quest of kins folk, not

dreaming of trouble. Finding the place, I rang the bell and found

the family at dinner. I was ushered into the parlor and left alone.

Glancing around the room, I saw American flags everywhere and the

pictures of Lincoln and Hamlin, the President and Vice-President.

"What a fool I am," I thought. My curiosity had gotten me into

trouble; but I must get out somehow. To slip out of the house, while

the family were yet at dinner would never do. I determined to face

the difficulty. I never knew why I was named Washington unless it

was because the father of his country was born on February 22nd and

I on the 24th. However, you must remember there were several years

intervening between the birthdays of these two distinguished men.

I was very unlike my illustrious namesake. He never could tell a

lie, I had been successful in the attempt several times; but I could

not _hide a lie_. If any one looked straight at me I would betray

myself. On this occasion, I stuck as near the truth as I could and I

guess the story was plausible; at least it was not questioned.

I learned from the two young men, who met me in the parlor, that

their father was an Episcopal clergyman, out of the city that day;

that he had several sons in the Union army, and these were getting

ready to go. I was pressed earnestly to remain over night and see

the father, but I was _pressed_ for time and turned a deaf ear to

all their appeals and, as soon as possible, excused myself and

returned to the hotel. I was afraid of my new found kin; but they

were hard to shake off. One of the young men accompanied me to the

hotel and that night returned with an earnest invitation from the

father, who had returned, to visit him before I left the city. A

great weight was lifted when he left me and I boarded the train

for Chicago. At Altoona and Pittsburg, in the hotel lobbies, I was

compelled to hear war talk of the most offensive character by the

crowds of loafers who thronged there to hear the news. It was only

a few miles to the West Virginia line. The war was on everybody's

lips. There I sat in the midst of the talkers, one lone Southerner,

with a secret purpose in my mind which would have brought me into

trouble if it has been suspected. My lips were sealed of course, but

sometimes it was very hard to keep silent.

AT BELOIT, WISCONSIN,

or rather, four miles in the country, I met a warm welcome from my

brother's old friends. He had met them in California in the early

days. I learned also that there was a match brewing between him and

the oldest daughter, which was afterwards consummated.

How the snow did pile up soon after I reached Wisconsin! I had never

seen the like before. My friends, knowing that I was a Southerner

and unused to such severe weather, were as tender of me as if I had

been a baby; but in a few days I did not at all mind it. Winter time

is the time for visiting in the North, and so I was on the go with

the family much of the time. Another way I spent my time was to go

out in the deep snow in the fields. Sometimes a rabbit, frightened

at my crushing through the crust of the snow, would jump out of his

hole ten feet away and sit for a moment, loath to run away in the

cold. Many a time I emptied my pistol at him and would then throw

the gun at him before he would run away. That gun will be heard

from again. Without any talk about it, I secured a large map of the

"Seat of the war in the West." This I put on the wall in the dining

room. It gave all the public roads. With the study of the map, I

read diligently the _Chicago Daily Times_, which gave the movements

of troops along the route I might choose. I picked out two routes;

one through Southeast Missouri, the other through Kentucky and

Tennessee, both branching out from Southern Illinois. My brother

hoped I would become satisfied to remain in this lovely Northern

home and go to school, but I was bent on going to the war. I did

as he suggested, however; I corresponded with Col. U. S. Grant,

commandant of the post at Cairo, Ill., afterwards the great General

and twice President, asking for a pass-port south, and received a

very kind letter in reply, but denying the request.

I might have remained in Wisconsin until spring, when I could have

had better weather and more money, but for an incident I will

presently relate.

THE FALL OF FT. DONELSON,

in Tennessee, was a fearful blow to me. Of course there was great

exultation everywhere up North. I saw and heard it all, but could

say nothing. One day while in Beloit, I saw a great crowd on the

sidewalk. Drawing near I discovered the attraction. It was a

butternut jeans jacket, which had been taken off a dead Confederate

at Ft. Donelson. It was shot through and was saturated with blood.

On it was a large placard with these words:

"_Taken from the dead body of Private Turner of the Mississippi

Rifles on the battlefield of Fort Donelson._"

I gazed at it for a moment and heard the exultant laugh and jeers

from the toughs who gathered about it. I turned away with clenched

teeth, determined to go South at all hazards and at once I

announced to my friends that evening that I was going to Chicago, a

hundred miles away, next morning to see the Fort Donelson prisoners

who were confined in Camp Douglas.

Chapter Four

Gets a pass into Camp Douglas; Learns first lesson in

"Shut-mouth"; Starts afoot out of Chicago; Frogs in the throat;

Pawns his pistol; Rides with Federal soldiers; Across the

Mississippi.

I HAD only a little money. I could have gotten more from my friends

if I had asked for it, but I thought possibly I might be captured

and traced back to their home and get them in trouble. I wanted them

to have the privilege of saying they knew nothing at all about my

plans and for the same reason, I did not care for them to know of my

intentions. Lest I should create some suspicion, I took no satchel

with me. On the 6th of March, 1862, I started. With a shawl securely

strapped, in which I had slipped a shirt, with every scratch of

pen or pencil, by which I might be identified, destroyed, I bade

farewell to my friends, with no expectation of returning again.

I shall say now and then that things "happened," but I do not

believe that things happen. I think they are all a part of the chain

of God's great plan.

It so happened that I put up at the Madison House in passing through

Chicago, and so I naturally went back to the same place in returning

to the city, and this _happened_ to be the headquarters of Col.

Mulligan, the Commandant of Camp Douglas. Arriving there in the

middle of the afternoon, I got aboard a street car and went out to

the Camp. Looking through the open gate, I saw for the first time

Confederate soldiers. They were all dressed in butternut jeans. In

the beginning, the Confederates did not wear the grey, because they

did not have it. The cloth made all over the country by the mothers

and sisters was jeans, the color of butternut.

Returning to the hotel, after supper I wrote the very best note I

could to Col. Mulligan and sent it up to his rooms. Expecting every

moment to be called up into his office, it seemed that minutes

were hours. I am sure, if my fears had been realized, it would

have taken only about two questions to have tangled me. What would

have happened then, I have no idea, but I guess I would have been

arrested and probably thrown into prison as a Southern sympathizer.

But to my great delight, the servant returned with a silver waiter

and on it was a nice little card, saying:

"LET MR. W. B. CRUMPTON INTO THE CAMP TOMORROW."

As soon as I could get my breakfast the next morning I was on my way

to the Camp. On entering the open gate, I saw the barracks of an

Alabama regiment. The Barracks, were long, low buildings. The Camp

was laid off like a city, with streets and alleys. I entered the

building at once and in a moment was surrounded by a large number

of men. I said: "You are Alabamians, and so am I. I have been to

California. I am on my way back. I expect to start tomorrow morning

from this City, to go through the lines and join the Confederate

army." I rattled off the words very rapidly, never realizing for

a moment the danger I might be in. When I reached the end of the

sentence, I looked into their faces, and they looked like boards,

not a feature indicated any sympathy for what I said. It was

paralyzing; but fortunately a Mississippian _happened_ to be in the

crowd. Why he was there I never did know, but when I had finished my

speech, he said: "Did you say your name was Crumpton?" I said "yes."

"And do your father and sisters live in Mississippi?" I said "yes."

"And did you visit them before you went to California?" I replied

"yes, two years ago." "Well," he said, "I belong to a Company right

from their neighborhood. I did not see you, but I heard the people

speaking about your visit. Come with me and I will introduce you

to the boys who can tell you about your people." He took me to his

barracks, several hundred yards from where I was, carried me into

a back, dark corner, and said in a low tone: "You are in great

danger. You must keep your mouth shut. I am not surprised at your

being carried away at meeting those Alabamians, but there is a rumor

out among us that they have agreed to go West and fight the Indians

and relieve the Regulars there, who will be sent to the front and we

all believe it." [In all my travels in Alabama, I have never told

the name of that regiment, lest I should find his surmise correct.]

"I know you must have observed the indifference that they manifested

when you were talking. It is more than probable that some of them

will betray you today before you get out. You stay with us and late

this evening, I will see if I can't get you out through another

gate. It is hardly probable that they would know where my quarters

are, as I am a perfect stranger to them. It was only an accident

that I was present when you came in."

THIS IS THE FIRST LESSON I HAD IN "SHUT-MOUTH"

and it has served me all my days. You may be sure I did not need a

second invitation to remain with them. Numbers of the boys talked

with me, and we had a pleasant day. Late in the afternoon, my friend

conducted me in sight of another gate. I divided my money with him

and left.

Going back to the hotel, I satisfied myself about the way the

Illinois Central R. R. ran out from the city, because that was the

route I expected to take. It didn't make any difference then with me

about lower or upper berths. The next morning, Sunday, the 9th of

March, with my shawl wrapped up in a hand-strap, and my overcoat and

rubbers on,

I STARTED OUT AFOOT DOWN THE RAILROAD.

Fifteen miles below was the town of Calumet, now a part of the city;

I reached there about the middle of the afternoon, and went into

the eating house by the railroad. There was a large number of men

gathered around the stove, talking about the war. About six o'clock

they broke up and went to their homes for supper, and I was left

alone with the proprietor, who was also the railroad agent.

I had made it up with my friends at Camp Douglass, if I should be

captured I would claim my name was Hardy, one of their comrades,

who had been left somewhere, and they would recognize me as Hardy.

In that way, later on, I would be exchanged and get through. It was

a poor put up story, but that was the understanding, so I did not

expect to be Crumpton any more.

The proprietor said: "You seem to be traveling." I said "yes."

"Afoot?" "Yes." "Where are you from?" "Beloit, Wisconsin." "What

is your name?" I said "Crumpton." Immediately he took my breath by

saying: "You are lately from California, aren't you?"

FORTY FROGS SEEMED TO JUMP INTO MY THROAT.

I choked them down the best I could and finally said: "Yes, sir but

how did you know it?" He said: "Do you know Safford in California?"

I said "yes, one of the best friends I ever had." "Well," he

replied, "Safford and I were reared down in Cairo. It has been years

since I was there, but last Christmas I went to visit the old scenes

and, among others, called on his brother. He showed me a letter from

the California brother, in which he said a young man by the name of

Crumpton had gone to Beloit, Wis., and he had sent some Japanese

and Chinese curiosities by him." I said, "yes, I am the boy. I sent

the curios by express a month ago, and I expect to see the Saffords

on this trip." I did not deserve anything for telling the truth; my

intention was to tell a lie. Suppose I had said my name was Hardy.

The next question would have been: "Do you know a young fellow by

the name of Crumpton, lately from California?" Then I would have

been into it.

Resuming the conversation, he said: "How is it that you are afoot?"

My reply was: "My brother promised to send me money and when he

did not do it, I became impatient and determined to go without it."

"Where are you going?" I said: "To Vienna." It was a place I had

picked out on the map, about twenty miles East of Anna Station. I

guess it was a very insignificant place. Anna Station was the Camp

of Instruction for the Federal Army, about twenty miles North of

Cairo. I had chosen that as my point of destination, as no one would

suspect me if I should be going where the Federal soldiers were.

My friend said: "Young man, you are surely not acquainted with the

prairie and the winter weather. It is pleasant for this time of the

year, but in a few days snow storms and blizzards will be the order

and any man, taking the trip you propose afoot, would freeze to

death. It is out of the question for you to think of such a thing,

it is near three hundred miles." I said: "Well, I will go until the

storm breaks out."

He said, "you remain with me tonight. It shan't cost you anything,

and in the morning I will see if I can't get you a ticket to Anna

Station." I said: "I like to settle things in my mind; think I can

sleep better. I have a little pistol here which was given me by a

friend. It is hardly of any value to anybody except me, but if you

will take it in pawn, for two weeks, for a ticket to Anna Station, I

will take the ticket; otherwise I will pursue my journey afoot." He

finally agreed to do as I proposed and I turned over the pistol to

him. It was the only pistol I ever possessed. Really it was a relief

to get rid of it, for I had been uneasy every minute I had it in my

pocket.

The next morning I

TOOK THE TRAIN, WHICH WAS LOADED DOWN WITH FEDERAL SOLDIERS,

going to Anna Station. They were nearly all young men, in blue

uniforms and had large, well filled knapsacks. I don't think I

spoke a word to anybody that day. If anybody asked me a question, I

answered only in monosyllables. I saw those boys take new Bibles out

of their knapsacks and begin to read them. Nearly every one of them

had a Bible. I did not understand it until, a few weeks later, when

my own sister presented me with a Bible, as I started to the army,

with the injunction that I should read it.

A little before day I reached Anna Station;

AT DAYLIGHT I STARTED WEST TO THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER,

instead of East to Vienna. Taking dinner with a farmer, who was

evidently in sympathy with the Southern people, he said: "How are

you going to get across the river?" I said: "Is there no ferry

there?" "No, there is a place where the ferry was, but all the boats

from St. Louis to Cairo have been destroyed by the Federals, except

one belonging to a fisherman, four miles above the old ferry; but

he is a Union man and would see you dead before he would put you

over." About the middle of the afternoon I reached the abandoned

ferry. I suppose the Mississippi River was lower than it had ever

been at that time of the year, and probably ever has been since.

Large sand bars extended out into the river and the stream was very

narrow where it swept around the bar. I went up to the head of the

sand bar and found driftwood of every imaginable kind. I picked out

some timbers and expected to come back and attempt to make a raft

on which I might pole or paddle myself across, if I should fail in

getting across in the fisherman's boat. As I approached the house of

the fisherman, I saw on the other side of the river, in the village

a very large number of men. Evidently they were having a lot of

sport; I guessed they had much liquor aboard. I got the woman to

call her husband over. I saw him and a companion coming down the

river bank on the other side. I discovered at once that they were

intoxicated. As they came up, the owner of the boat said: "Who are

you?" "I am a young fellow from Beloit, Wis., going to Greenville,

Mo." "Well, how do you know you are going?" I said: "I don't know

it. I suppose it depends on you, but I am very anxious to get

across." He said: "Well, old fellow, are you loyal?" "I am sworn not

to put anybody across here except loyal men, and I would get into a

world of trouble if I should put a rebel across." I said: "How can a

man be otherwise than loyal when he comes from Beloit, Wis.? I was

in Chicago just day before yesterday and I expect, just as soon as

I get back home, to join the army." So after a good deal of parley,

he said: "Well, it will take one dollar in advance," which I readily

paid, that left me one dollar in my pocket. I was anxious to make

a good impression on him as to my loyalty, so I said, as we were

crossing: "Is there any danger of my falling into the hands of the

rebels on the other side of the river?" He said: "I should say, and

if they run up on you they will kill you sure." I said: "That would

be awful. I think maybe I can walk two miles before night; tell me

the name of some loyal man out a little piece, where I could stay

all night and be safe." He said: "All right I'll just take you up to

the man and introduce you, he will take care of you." I saw at once

I had spoken one word too many. I didn't want to be introduced to

anybody by that man, especially not to a loyal man. How was I going

to get out of it was the question.

Just as the boat landed there came a number of men down the bank,

cursing and swearing at these fellows. Evidently they had formed a

conspiracy to whip them when they got back. They commenced fighting

and rolled into the edge of the river before I left. When I got to

the top of the bank, I saw all the people of the town coming my way,

evidently, bent on seeing the fight. I did not care to meet them,

so I took a path running right down by the river bank and walked

off just as if I lived down that way. I have no idea that there was

a man in the crowd that could have remembered seeing me, if he had

been sworn; they were so intent on seeing that fight they had no

eyes for anything else.

Chapter Five

Gets his pistol back; Road full of Yankees; Goes forty miles one

day; Such a man as I have never seen; Not a prayer meeting man;

Reaches old Uncle McCullough's; Like one in a dream; You people

who don't believe in prayer; Mind made up not to remain.

I STAYED that night with a man who lived on the bank of the river,

and found out that he had been with Jeff Thompson, the Confederate

Cavalry General, but had been caught and made to take the oath

of allegience. Such men, I afterwards discovered, were called

"galvanized" men. Before I left the house next morning I was treated

to the sight of a steamboat, loaded with Federal soldiers, going

down the river. They were cheered lustily by the negroes, but the

white man and I observed them in silence. Of course, I told him

nothing about my intentions, except that I was going to Greenville,

Mo. Thinking it possible that it might be difficult to get a letter

back to my friends later on, I wanted to find a suitable place to

write. This I discovered by questioning an old negro. He said he

belonged to "Marse John Oliver. Young Marse John was with Jeff

Thompson and Miss Mary was at home." I concluded I could confide in

the mother after that information, so I approached the house and

introduced myself to the lady, telling her that I was going South

and wanted to write some letters back to my friends. She kindly

showed me to a back room and gave me stationery. I wrote to my

friends in Wisconsin, begging their pardon for deceiving them, and

asking them to redeem my pistol, so that the man at Calumet might

not lose anything. This they did and

THREE YEARS AFTER THEY SENT THE PISTOL TO ME,

and I have it now as a souvenir of those days.

The lady said: "I would be very glad for you to spend the afternoon

and night with us, so that my husband might see you; but it would be

dangerous for you and for us. The Home Guards are roaming through

the country all the time, and if you should be found here, they

might have my husband arrested and carried off to prison, on the

charge of harboring a rebel, or they might burn our property down.

There is no telling what they would do. I am very uneasy for you,

lest they shall meet you and kill you." These Home Guards, as I

afterwards found out, were irresponsible soldiers, most of them

Germans, who were but little more than marauders, and I afterwards

found that we had some of the same sort among the Confederates. I

had but little apprehension of trouble, as I was to go to places

where there were Federal garrisons. I went through the first town

late in the afternoon with a "galvanized" man whom I happened to

meet just before reaching the village. I saw the soldiers all around

on the streets, drinking and carousing. A little further along,

I spent the night in a home where an old gentleman and his family

were living, taking care of the plantation and slaves belonging

to a young man who was with Jeff Thompson. Of course they told me

very much about the war, but I said nothing to them further than

that I was going to Greenville. The next morning when I came down

stairs, I found the girls on the back veranda. Being of a confiding

disposition, especially with pretty girls, I told them in a few

words that I was going South to the Confederate Army. Just then

breakfast was announced. I sat down to the table with my back

towards the front door, and the girls sat on the opposite side of

the table, in full view of the front door and the public road. As I

was chatting with them, casting sheep's eyes the while, I noticed

one of them suddenly change color, as she gazed intently towards the

front door, and she remarked:

"THE ROAD IS FULL OF YANKEES."

Immediately the frogs leaped into my throat, and I was wondering

what I would say to the fellows when they came in. One girl bounded

towards the door and stood in it. It was the days of the hoop-skirt

and she just about filled the door, so that nobody might see past

her. The other girl begged me to run up stairs and hide, which I was

not at all inclined to do. The old people were paralyzed, because

they did not understand it at all. I hastily informed them of what

I had told the girls. That is one time I didn't know what I ate for

breakfast. It might have been knives and forks and salt-cellars for

all I knew, but I kept eating. The girl in the door turned her head

and said: "They are going into the lot." The old gentleman said: "I

don't reckon they are coming in the house at all; they left some

wounded horses with me several weeks ago and told me yesterday they

were going to send after them." It was a great relief to hear that,

but I could not understand why a whole regiment should have to

come after a few horses. Presently the girl said: "They are going

off," and I felt a pressure removed, equal to five hundred bales

of cotton. I felt as light as a feather and if I had had wings, I

certainly would have used them.

Each of these two nights, I spent twenty-five cents, and that

carried with it a lunch for the next day. As speedily as possible I

got away and

WENT FORTY-FIVE MILES THAT DAY.

Mind you, I did not say I walked it; when I was dead sure nobody saw

me, I ran. I saw very few people that day. The Home Guards had done

their work well, as the burned houses indicated on every side.

Late that afternoon I was told that I was approaching another

village, but I need not go by the village if I did not wish to; I

could turn to the left and cross the creek lower down, and both

roads led to Greenville. I had no business in the town, so I took

the left hand. Just before night I came to a deep, narrow, ugly

looking little stream that had no bridge across it. Nobody had

been fording it. I looked in vain for a log on which to cross. I

didn't want to go up the stream, for that would carry me up into

the town. I found a pole, that probably nothing but a squirrel had

ever crossed on, but I ventured to straddle it, and then I inched

myself across. A kodak could have gotten a picture worth while then.

Getting on the other side, I went up to the most desolate looking

home I had ever seen. Not a sign of life, except now and then the

cackle of a chicken flying to the roost. I knocked at the front door

but no response coming, like a tramp, I went around to the kitchen.

There was an old lady, standing before a great, old-fashioned fire

place cooking supper. It seemed to me I never smelt the frying of

bacon that was so delicious in my life. I said: "I am traveling and

am very tired; I want to stay all night with you, please ma'am." She

invited me in saying: "Sit down by the fire here; when my son comes,

maybe he will let you stay. I don't know whether he will or not, he

is mighty curios." The kitchen had a dirt floor. She put corn bread

and fried meat on the table and invited me to put my stool up to the

table and eat, which I was not slow to do. Just as I began eating,

THERE CAME IN SUCH A MAN AS I HAVE NEVER SEEN BEFORE OR SINCE

I judge he was about twenty-one or twenty-two years old, with

immense jaw bones, high cheek bones, just a little space between

his eyebrows and hair, overhanging eyebrows and way-back little

beady eyes. He scowled at me, then said to the old lady: "Who's

this you've got here?" I looked up and said: "Good evening sir,

your mother was kind enough to invite me in. I want to stay all

night with you and I hope you can accommodate me." He took his old

slouch hat off, threw it on the floor, sat down and went to eating.

Not a word passed. That is another time I don't know what I ate. I

eyed him and he eyed me, but I mostly eyed the grub. He got through

before I did, picked up his hat and shot out the door without a

word. He had been gone not ten minutes when the biggest rain I ever

heard, began to fall and I judge it fell through the whole night.

The old lady showed me to a bed and I retired, wondering whether I

would wake up dead or alive, feeling pretty certain that I would

wake up dead, for I was sure that boy was bent on mischief. Next

morning, I had my breakfast by candle-light, paid the old lady a

quarter, and said to her: "I am completely broken down, my feet are

blistered and swollen, I could hardly get my shoes on this morning,

I have no money. Is there anybody living near here, on whom it would

not be an imposition, who might let me rest until Monday morning?"

The reply was: "I have a son about three miles down the road. He is

plenty able to do it if he would, but he is _curioser_ than that boy

you saw here last night." When I got out the front gate, I looked

down on that insignificant little old creek, and there was a stream

of water big enough to float the navy of the United States. It did

not dawn on me then, but later I felt sure that boy crossed the

creek and went to town to report me to the Yankees and that rain

and overflow prevented his designs from being carried out. Doubtless

the stream remained up the greater part of the day. I trudged along,

dragging my feet as best I could, and after so long a time, reached

the home of this "_curioser_" son. He came out and stood on the

stoop to listen to my yarn about going to Greenville.

HE WAS NOT A PRAYER-MEETING MAN

I judged from his language. He said: "Do you think I am a fool? You

are nothing but a little old rebel or some little old boy going

to the rebels. I hope to God the Home Guards will find you today

and kill you. If I see any of them I am going to put them on your

track." Of course I had no further argument with that man. I went

off a few hundred yards, felt of my knees to see if there were any

joints there or not, for up to that time I had not discovered them

that day. How mad I did get! I gritted my teeth, shook my fist,

bowed my neck, and shot out, going thirty-five miles. I never saw a

soul all day.

The remains of burned homes I could see; now and then a place was

spared and evidently the people were about, but out of sight. I was

almost in despair of reaching a place to spend the night, when just

before dark, I looked down and saw one of the most beautiful sights

I ever beheld. It was an old country home, the doors wide open, good

fires burning, the negro quarters stretching out and fires burning

brightly in the cabins. I heard the lowing of cattle, the bleating

of sheep, the cackling of poultry, all indicating a place of plenty.

I found it to be an old lady's home, whose son and grand son had

been with Jeff Thompson captured and galvanized. They were so

outspoken, I made bold that night to tell them who I was and where

I was going. They said: "It is impossible for you to go any further

until Caster river goes down. As the road runs, it crosses the river

three times. There is a possibility of your going far up the river

and getting a "galvanized" man to put you across in a boat, and at

another place getting a widow woman to send you across on horseback

and then

REACHING OLD 'UNCLE McCULLOUGH'S,'

but you ought not to undertake it. Stay with us until Monday morning

at least." The old lady did not hear this conversation. The boys

were off early the next morning to their work, confident that I

was going to remain. I concluded the mother ought to be consulted,

and so I ventured to say, as she was washing the dishes: "The boys

said that it would be all right for me to remain and rest here

until Monday morning. I suppose it will be all right with you?" She

said "y-e-s, I reckin so." I saw at once that I was not welcome. I

thought about it a little while and presently returned and said:

"I believe, on reflection, if you will fix me up a lunch, I will

go on." She did so without any protest. "How much do I owe you?" I

asked. "Half a dollar," was the reply. It was the first time anybody

suggested a price like that and I had only a quarter left. I took

out the quarter and said: "This is as near as I can come to paying

it." I fully expected the old soul to say "keep it," but, bless your

life, she took it, saying: "That's lots better than a heap of them

do; they come here and bring their horses and spend a week and don't

say turkey about money."

So I made the trip, after many adventures, falling into the overflow

a time or two, and reached "Uncle McCullough's" just at night fall.

Providence was leading me, I believe. Had I carried out my plans to

remain until Monday morning, that stream at the village would have

gone down and the Yankees doubtless would have found me there, then

I would have been done for.

So much for my antipathy to staying where I am not welcome. It

served me in good turn on that occasion as it has on many another.

"Uncle McCullough" was an uncle of Gen. Ben McCullough, who was

distinguishing himself at this time as a Confederate General. As I

stood in the door and looked at the old patriarch, standing before

a large fire, in an old-fashioned fireplace,

I FELT LIKE ONE IN A DREAM.

He was the same height and same complexion as my own uncle, Richard

Bryan, with whom I had lived when a boy at Pleasant Hill in Dallas

county. The similarity of the house, the cedar trees in front and

the further coincidence of both being class-leaders in the Methodist

church--I was almost dazed that night as I thought about it. I said

to the old gentleman: "I am traveling, I have no money, and I want

to stay all night, please sir." The response from his old warm heart

came immediately: "Why come in, my son, of course you can stay all

night, money don't make any difference here. You seem to be wet,

you must have some dry clothes," with that he took me into another

room and dressed me up in his best, wrung out my clothes and hung

them before the fire to dry. He took me into a kitchen, with a dirt

floor, identical with "Uncle Dick's" home when I was a boy, and

introduced me to a dear old soul who was the very image of old "Aunt

Nancy." After supper I opened my heart to him: "I have been saying I

was going to Greenville. I don't know anything about Greenville, or

care anything about it; I want to go South and join the Confederate

army." The old man said: "Well, my son, you are dangerously near

Greenville, only twelve miles; the Yankees were out here today and

may be out here tonight. I don't know what I will do with you. It is

too cold for you to go out to the fodder-loft, so I am going to put

you in bed and pray the Lord to protect you."

YOU PEOPLE, WHO DON'T BELIEVE IN PRAYER:

The boy I am telling you about was not very religious, but when the

old patriarch told him he was going to pray for him, when he lay

down on that bed, he felt as secure as if an army of soldiers had

been around him.

We ate breakfast by candle-light, and just about sun-up we were

climbing the hill back of his garden. When I reached the top, I saw

stretched out for miles Caster river bottom, overflowing everything.

The old man said: "Now, my son, you will see nobody today. You will

find no road, except this path. You follow this trail right down

this ridge and you will come to Ira Abernathy's. There you will have

to stop. It is folly to try to go any further until the overflow

goes down. Nobody will ever find you there. Ira is a good Methodist;

he has been _galvanized_. You tell him that Uncle McCullough sent

you there and said for him to take care of you until the river goes

down, it will be all right." I sauntered along that day, one of

the prettiest Sundays I ever saw. Deer, turkeys and squirrels were

seen on every side. Late in the afternoon, I reached the end of

my journey and delivered "Uncle McCullough's" message. When I was

through, I saw a face that reminded me exactly of the faces of those

Alabamians in Chicago at Camp Douglas. I saw through it instantly.

Ira had conscientious regard for his oath. If he kept me there and

it was found out, it would go hard with him. Before I went to bed,

my

MIND WAS MADE UP NOT TO REMAIN.

I found out from him it was fourteen miles to Bloomfield where the

Confederates were, about nine miles was overflowed, that the depth

would not be above my waist, except at the last. Duck Creek was deep

and dangerous, that I would pass only one house and that was just

before I reached Duck creek.

So next morning I started, and in five minutes I was knee deep in

water. I could tell the way the road ran by watching the trees,

so I kept just on the outside of the edge in the woods. Before a

great while I came to a slough which seemed to be dangerous, and

on sounding it I found that here was one place that my friend had

certainly forgotten; it was very much over my head. I turned to

find a log to cross it, which I successfully walked, but on going

out on the other side on a limb, the limb broke and I fell into the

water. Remember this was March, and it was in Missouri, and you

can imagine that I was not very comfortable. You can see something

of the happy-go-lucky boy, when I tell you that out there, half a

mile from the road, wet as a drowned rat and water all around me,

I took out my knife and stood for half an hour by the side of a

smooth beech tree, and carved my name: "W. B. Crumpton, Pleasant

Hill, Ala." It is there to this day, if the forests have not been

destroyed.

I waded along throughout the day and late that afternoon I passed

the house on my right, the only dry land I had seen. Beyond the

house a slough ran up from the overflow into a corn field. The fence

was built up to each end of a log across the slough and rails were

stuck in above the logs as a sort of water fence. Behind these rails

on the log I was making my way across, when I heard a corn stalk

crack over in the field. Looking in that direction I saw a Yankee,

in full uniform, with a gun on his shoulder. How those frogs did

leap into my throat. What was I to do? I did not dare to dodge;

in that case, I could never have explained it if he had seen me.

If I should go on the road, he would probably see me, so I eased

myself off the end of the log and _walked straight away from him

into the overflow_. I had no idea where I was going, only I knew

I was going away from him. I was feeling for bullets in my back

all the time, but I am sure that he did not see me. If he had, he

would have killed me and have thrown my body in the creek. Now see

how Providence leads! If I had followed the road and escaped his

eye, I would have come to the creek, with no possible chance of

crossing. Naturally I would have turned up the creek, never would

have dreamed of going down into the overflow. As it turned out, I

came to a raft just in the creek. It had broken loose, I suppose,

from a mill above and had lodged there. By wading in, waist deep, I

climbed on it, but found I was still some distance from the bank on

the other side. I had not looked around since I left the Yankee, so

standing on the raft I eased myself around and saw no one. When I

measured the water on the other side I found it too deep for me to

wade and I couldn't swim a lick. I reached around in the water, got

hold of a loose sassafras pole, floated it around, stuck it in the

bank on the other side, and undertook to walk it and it partially

under water. Of course it wobbled; I went down head and ears. Coming

up fortunately I grasped my bundle in one hand and my cap in the

other, and found myself chin deep in the water. I waded out on the

other side, which seemed to me "the bank of sweet deliverance." I

had been told that I would be on the side of the Confederates when

I got there. I walked briskly up to the top of the hill and looked

around to see if there were any signs of camp-fires anywhere,

indicating the presence of the Yankee forces. I supposed that the

man I saw in the bottom was on picket. Seeing no signs of camp, I

shot down the hill as fast as I could run. An old man seeing me

shouted: "Hello, there." I replied: "Hello, yourself." He said:

"Stop and give me the news." I said: "I have no news." He yelled

again: "Have you seed any soldiers." I replied: "Yes, I saw one

back there in the river bottom." He said: "Yes, that's Ike Reader,

I heard he was home 'tother day; but stop and give me some news." I

said: "No, I haven't time," and on I rushed. I won't say I went the

remaining five miles in three-quarters of an hour, but I went it in

a very short time. The idea of being caught almost within sight of

the rebel lines possessed me and it put wings on my feet. When I

reached the borders of the village just about night fall, there was

a man standing, as if he were waiting for me, and when I told him my

story, he said: "Come right along up to Capt. Miller's home, and you

will be welcome." I found that the Captain owned a steamboat on the

St. Francis river, and I guess I could have gotten passage if I had

asked for it, but I never thought of it. I was given dry clothes,

treated most tenderly, and the next morning at breakfast was told

that the rebel scouts were in town.

Chapter Six

Released on parole; On the lookout; Reaches Helena, Ark.; Aboard

the steamer; Black coffee; Reaches Vicksburg; Finds one man who

believes him; In ten miles of Newton; On the Mobile and Ohio;

More trouble; Reaches home.

THAT was the best news I had ever heard. The Captain accompanied me

to the front door and said: "You can go out of the front gate there,

or you can take this path and go through the grove." I looked down

the path and saw the scouts passing the gap, and just as I got to

the gap all of them had passed except one. I said to him: "I saw a

Yankee in the river bottom yesterday." He said: "Do you know who he

was?" I said: "No, but I might know the name, if I heard it." He

said: "Was it Ike Reader?" I said: "Yes, that was the name I heard

a man call." So he put spurs to his horse and went to the head of

the column shouting as he went: "Old Ike Reader is at home." I judge

they had heard that he was home on furlough and were going after him.

Twenty-four miles wasn't much of a walk so I sauntered along

through the day and just at dark came up to the pickets. They were

raw recruits, whom I suppose had never known duty before. They

had stacked their guns and built a fire and were out in the woods

gathering wood to burn through the night. They were frightened

nearly to death. I could have captured them without any difficulty.

I told them they were the fellows I was hunting for and that I

wanted to surrender. Three of them took me back about a mile and let

me go to bed, while they sat up and watched me all night.

RELEASED ON PAROLE.

Next morning they carried me back several miles to the company

of Capt. Hunter. I found him to be an old veteran of Mexican war.

He had recruited a company and was up there in Stoddard County

drilling them and enlisting other men before going South. When I

told him my story, he said: "I will release you on parole of honor,

that you will not leave the camp. You will be safer with us than

traveling alone. In a little while we will go down the river to

Helena, Ark. That will be right on your road. I will take you in my

mess and you will be treated right." Such kindness on the part of a

perfect stranger, under the circumstances, was unusual and greatly

encouraging to me. The next afternoon the scouts came along with

their man. They had found him at home. He was there on a furlough.

I saw their Captain and ours talking very animatedly for probably

thirty minutes and as he rode off, he said: "He is mine by rights,

and I am going to have him." When he was gone the Captain took me

into his tent and asked me if I had met those scouts. I related to

him the circumstance of my going through the grove at Bloomfield,

rather than through the front gate, which would have caused me to

meet the head of the column. I did it only from convenience, not

from any fears that I had. He replied: "You certainly were fortunate

in going through that grove. The Captain of that Company is nothing

more than a marauder, although he wears the Confederate uniform.

It is his custom, when he meets a civilian anywhere, to kill him,

but he will take a Federal soldier prisoner. I will not ask you to

enlist with us, but you be just as one of our soldiers. Have you a

gun ready at hand with ammunition and whenever you see those scouts,

don't expose yourself. We will pass and repass them on the trip

south, no doubt, and he is mean enough to shoot you down. We are

going to protect you." That the Captain was not mistaken in the man,

I soon discovered. We saw a suttler pass our camp one day, and just

a little later saw this Captain with his scouts going in the same

direction. It was not a great while before we heard pistol shots

and presently they came back and our men learned from them that

the Captain had taken the suttler out into the woods and shot him,

leaving his wagon standing in the road. He was a harmless fellow

who was gathering up chickens and eggs and butter, and selling them

wherever he could, sometime to the Federals and sometimes to the

Confederates.

ON THE LOOKOUT.

You may be sure I was on the lookout. The number of Yankees that

they had as prisoners increased to probably twenty-five. When the

companies assembled to start South under General Thompson, sometimes

these scouts were ahead and sometimes in the rear. They passed and

repassed us. Word went down the line whenever they were approaching,

"Crump, look-out" and I was always ready. The old Yankee soon found

out that I was the man who had told on him and learned my name and

he would shout when he came in sight of me, "Hello, Crump," and I

would reply, "Hello, Ike." The first service I did after joining

the Confederate army at Columbus, Miss., was to guard the Federal

prisoners, and who should I find there but old Ike Reader.

REACHES HELENA, ARK.

It was several weeks before we reached Helena, Ark. There I ate

breakfast with the boys, the morning before they went up the river.

I could have secured rations if I had thought of it. I learned

afterwards a soldier was satisfied so long as his stomach was full.

I went to see Gen. Thompson, however, and got from him a paper,

stating that I had come to them up in Missouri, that I was on my way

to my friends in Mississippi, and commending me to people wherever I

went. I could have gotten transportation from him if I had thought

of it, but never dreamed that I could be hungry again or ever have

need to ride anymore. I remained all that day and night, sleeping

on the wharf boat, and the next day, without anything to eat. I did

not have the courage to beg. That was the only quality of the tramp

that I had not learned.

BOARDED THE STEAMER.

About 2 o'clock I went to the hotel intending to ask for dinner.

While I was sitting there, trying to work up courage enough to

approach the clerk, I heard a boat coming down and hastened away

and boarded the steamer, H. D. Mears. As she was pulling off, I

approached the Captain and showed him my paper from Gen. Thompson.

He made the atmosphere blue with profanity. He said it was simply

absurd, that I had forged that paper, that Gen. Thompson would not

have given me that paper without giving me transportation too,

he almost made me believe he was right. It did seem absurd. Then

I asked him to credit me with my transportation to Vicksburg, to

give me the address of some one to whom I might send the money. He

replied, "I would not credit my grand-mammy."

The river was high and boats could not approach land. Seeing a

skiff coming over from the Arkansas side, from where a landing

was supposed to be, thinking that he was going to put me off, I

approached him and asked that he put me off on the Mississippi side,

as I was afoot. His reply was, "I am not going to put you off; you

can ride as far as you want to ride, to ---- if you want to." I felt

that he was very much more likely to go there than I. I told him I

had asked for nothing except the privilege to ride.

TAKES FEVER.

He replied: "How are you going to get any grub?" I answered that I

did not know. I was too independent to let him know that I needed

some just at that time. Being exposed to the weather and drinking

Mississippi water and doing without food brought on fever, which I

had all the night. The next morning I was in a desperate condition.

The desire for food had given place to a feeling that I'd as soon

die as not. Late in the afternoon, I began to feel a delirium

stealing over me. It seemed all like a dream to me; could not tell

where I was. I knew it was for the want of something to eat. I had

sense enough left to know that the kitchen was the place to find

relief, so I found my way to the door, and stood there looking into

the face of the old negro man, a perfect giant in appearance. I

said: "Uncle, I am on this boat without a cent of money, and haven't

had anything to eat for three days; I am sick and about to die." He

looked me all over from head to foot, then put a stool up to the

table and said in a commanding tone: "Set down there."

BLACK COFFEE.

I wasn't used to being ordered about by negroes that way, but I

took no offense on that occasion. He filled a quart cup with the

blackest coffee I ever saw, put three tablespoonsful of sugar into

it, stirred it and sat it before me and said: "Drink that." I guess

he must have seen cases like mine before. I commenced to sip the

coffee, for it was too hot to drink. I shall never forget that

cup of coffee while I live. The very first sip seemed to go to the

ends of my fingers and toes; it thrilled me through and through.

As I drank I could not restrain my tears. When I was through, in

about half an hour, I was in a profuse perspiration. I looked at the

three large pieces of steak, as big as my hand and four hot rolls,

and said: "Uncle, if I should eat that meat, I am sure I would die

in half an hour. If you have no objections, I will put it in my

overcoat pocket and eat it at my leisure." He said: "That is just

the thing for you to do." Thanking him, I departed, and commenced

reaching in my pocket, pulling off pieces of steak, chewing it and

swallowing the juice. I "chawed" all night, in my waking moments.

When I went to sleep, I was chewing that meat. At sun rise the next

morning, I found myself at Vicksburg, with no fever and as hungry

as a wolf. I went out like Pat, "in quest of a breakfast, for me

appetite." I was determined never to speak to another man. I was

like that fellow who said, "the more he knew about men, the better

he liked dogs." So many of them did not believe my story and took

it out in cursing that I was thoroughly disgusted with them. Seeing

the sign: "Mrs. Roebecker, Private Boarding," I took a seat in an

old store nearby and watched the door until all the boarders came

out. How like a tramp! I approached the door and was received very

graciously by the kind lady, who gave me a good breakfast. When she

asked me how I was going to get home, I replied, "I am going to

walk." She protested, "No, don't do anything of the kind. Go up and

see Mr. ----, the superintendent of the railroad. He is a kind, nice

gentleman, and I am sure he will help you on your way." I plucked up

courage enough to speak to the Superintendent, and found him just as

the lady said, a perfect gentleman.

FINDS ONE MAN WHO BELIEVED HIM.

He said: "Of course, my son; I will give you a ticket, sign this due

bill, and we will send it over to our agent, Dr. Watts at Newton

Station, and your people can pay it after you get home." I shall

never forget his kindly expression, and the effect it had on me. My

tears are not usually very shallow, but kindness always humbled me

and brought out the tears. I got aboard the train and in a little

while fell asleep. I slept all the afternoon. Don't remember passing

Brandon or Jackson or any place.

IN TEN MILES OF NEWTON.

About ten o'clock at night some soldiers came on the crowded train.

One took a seat in the aisle on his knap-sack right by me. I said,

"How far is it to Newton?" He said, "Ten miles." After a while I

heard the brakeman call out "Chunky Station." I said: "How far is

it from Newton now?" He said, "Why, fellow, it is twenty miles, you

have passed Newton." By the time I got myself together, the train

was under way again, so I remained seated until I got to Meridian.

I remembered that Meridian was just above Enterprise, and there I

knew one man. Seeing a train on the M. & O. just ready to start for

Mobile, I made a rush and got aboard and took my seat among a lot of

soldiers. Presently the conductor came in with his lantern, calling,

"tickets," and

MY TROUBLES BEGAN AGAIN.

I showed him my paper from General Thompson, and said to him: "You

know Mr. Edmondson, who keeps the hotel at Enterprise, I hired a

horse and buggy from him two years ago to go out to Garlandsville.

I am sure I can get the money and leave it anywhere you say, if you

will let me pass on." He was another man that did not attend prayer

meeting. He said, "No, sir, Edmondson is dead, you are lying anyhow

and now get off at the wood station." There was a Sergeant on board,

in charge of some soldiers, who took an interest in me. He said:

"Captain, I have more transportation than I have men; let this man

go on my transportation." He said: "No sir, he has got to get off.

He is spinning a yarn. Who ever heard of a man coming back from

California without money." So I got off, and when the train started,

I stepped up on the back-platform. It was only a little while before

we reached Enterprise. I saw the conductor standing on the platform,

with his lantern, and I walked boldly by him. He easily detected me,

as I had on a fur cap, very uncommon in the South, He said: "Are

you ready to pay me, sir?" I replied: "No." He said: "If you are a

gentleman, you will do as you said you would do. Leave that money

here with Mr. Jackson, who keeps the eating house." I said: "I am

not a gentleman now since you made me steal a ride, gentlemen don't

do that way."

THEN HE COMMENCED CURSING.

I threw myself back with my thumbs under my arms and said: "Now,

blaze away and when you think you have cursed out the value of your

ticket, let me know and I will pass on." That was about one o'clock

in the morning. Presently the engineer rang his bell and the Captain

jumped on, shaking his fist at me as the train pulled out. I

responded by shaking both my fists at him. That is my way of keeping

out of a row with a conductor, wait until he gets off. Of course

I was very mad while he was cursing, but I was in no condition to

fight.

* * * * *

I went to the hotel and registered my name like a gentleman: "W. B.

Crumpton, San Francisco, Cal." When I awoke the next morning, and

looked into a glass, for the first time in six weeks, I was like

Pat, when he said: "Pat, is this you, or is it somebody else?" I

had been over the camp-fires and my face was smoked and greasy,

and I looked more like a negro than a white man. By diligent use

of soap and water, I got myself clean down to my collar. I had an

old woolen comforter, that I had worn around my neck. I turned it

wrong side out, pinned it close around my throat, spread it over

the front of my dirty shirt, buttoned my coat and, imagine I made

a right decent appearance. I took my seat at the table, crowded

with people. I have no recollection when anybody got up. I came to

myself after a while, when I asked for another biscuit, I looked at

the negroes, whose eyes were almost popping out, and I realized that

I was the only one at the table. I looked at the astonished lady

at the end of the room and stammered out: "Is this Mrs. Edmondson?

Excuse me please, I am nearly starved." She insisted on my eating

more, but I didn't have the face to do it. I said: "Mrs. Edmondson,

do you remember a boy coming here two years ago and hiring a horse

and buggy to go out to Garlandsville?" She said: "Yes, I remember

you well." I told her my story, and asked her to credit me until my

people could send her the money, to which she readily consented.

REACHES HOME.

I journeyed on for twenty-four miles and late that afternoon came

to my brother-in-law's home. They were all looking for me. I had

separated at Panama with a man by the name of Simpson, who had been

a commission merchant in Mobile, and I had given him a letter. He

went across to Aspenwall, thence to Havana, and ran the blockade

into Mobile. I had discussed doing that with my brother before I

left San Francisco, but he advised very much against it.

I started from Beloit the 6th of March and reached home on the

23rd of April, traveling probably a thousand or twelve hundred

miles, much of it on foot. As I spun my yarn that night around

the fire-side, my sister said, "Brother, why didn't you ask Mrs.

Edmondson to send you out in a buggy?" I said, "Bless my life, I

never thought of it until you mentioned it." I had gotten so used to

traveling afoot, it made no difference.

It was not long before I found a recruiting officer, Lieutenant John

McIntosh, and gave him my name. At the appointed time, I took the

train at Newton for Columbus, Miss., where on May 1862, I joined

Company H., of the 37th Mississippi Infantry. I had a mind to join

an Alabama regiment, but my people insisted on my enlisting in

a Mississippi Regiment, so that they might more easily hear from

me. The Lieutenant promised me a thirty days furlough to visit my

Alabama kin as soon as I was enlisted at Columbus. After I had

signed my name, he said, "Wash, do you want your furlough now?"

I said, "No, you might get in a battle while I was gone, or the

war might be over before I returned, so I will not take it." That

furlough never came, except on two or three occasions afterwards,

when I was wounded. Some day I may take the time to write out

another story about, "What the boy saw after he got through the

lines to the Confederacy," you may depend upon it, he saw sights.

I was one of two or three in my regiment who could sing. Many a

night, sitting around the Camp Fires, the weary hours were passed by

singing Camp songs. Only two of these do I remember now.

"GOOBER PEAS"

was one of the most popular. It ran about this way:

"GOOBER PEAS."

Sitting by the roadside on a pleasant day

Chatting with my mess-mates, whiling time away

Chatting with my mess-mates wholly at my ease

Good gracious! how delicious; eating Gooberpeas.

When a horseman passes, the Soldiers have a rule

To cry out at their loudest: "Mister, here's your mule,"

But another pleasure enchantinger than these

Is wearing out your jaw-teeth eating Gooberpeas.

Just before a battle the General has a row,

He says: "The Yanks are coming, I hear their rifles now."

He looks around in wonder and what do you think he sees?

The Gorga-i Milish-i eating Gooberpeas.

Now my story's ended, it's lasted long enough

The story's interesting, but the rhymes are rather rough.

When this war is over and we are free from grays and fleas

We'll kiss our wives and sweethearts and grabble Gooberpeas.

[Illustration: DR. H. J. CRUMPTON REV. W. B. CRUMPTON

"The Boys" after forty years]

Part Three

By W. B. Crumpton

To California and Back after a Lapse of Forty Years

Introduction

IN HISTORY few things are of greater interest than biography and in

biography few things are of greater interest than travel. A good

strong man who has covered much of the surface of the earth, with

his eyes and ears open, and tells of it intelligently and charmingly

to others is a real benefactor to his friends.

Every acquaintance of the author of this volume will be grateful

for what he has written herein. He needs no introduction and it is

almost wholly formal even to call his name. Who in Alabama does not

know him, and among us all, whose life has not been touched to some

extent by the influence of his? The observant reader will recognize

at once the well known style, the vein of seriousness and the

vein of pleasantry running side by side, and the high, distinctive

purpose. The author has theories, as any one can see, elevated and

generous theories, but here above all else is the practical man, the

man of affairs, taking life as it comes, with its ups and downs,

entering into its very currents, becoming of it a part, laying his

hand upon it and utilizing it for the glory of God and the good of

his fellow-men.

In these letters the youthful reader will find interest and

entertainment as he looks through anticipation at the real problems

of life; the person in middle years will discover confirmation for

his strength and hope as he actually struggles with these problems,

while many sentiments will minister comfort and peace to him who is

in the afternoon of life and ere long expects to look out into the

winter of age.

CHARLES A. STAKELY.

Montgomery, Ala.

Preface to Letters of the Second Trip

It has been a number of years since these letters appeared in the

Alabama Baptist. As I have traveled, many have been the kind words

said to me about them. Parents have expressed the wish that I put

them in book form so that their children could read them. Some old

people and the "shut-ins," who by reason of their age or affliction

can never hope to travel, have expressed the same wish. In the hope

that its reading may entertain, instruct and encourage, I send the

little booklet out.--

W. B. C.

[Illustration: Decoration]