horse, that became nearly frantic as he heard the rushing sound of the
enemy's horses. Bischoff threw the saddle on him, and as he buckled
the girth, the rebels appeared opposite the gate. There was no time
to waste then. Quick as lightning he drew out his knife, and cutting
the reins by which the horse was tied, swung, himself into the saddle.
The little horse wheeled. By cutting the reins, Bischoff had lost
all control of him, but he seemed to know precisely what was needed.
Instead of going to the gate, he turned and rushed at the fence. It
was higher than himself, and Bischoff thought they were lost; but the
little horse gave a tremendous bound, and came bravely over. They
were now neck and neck with the rebels; it was a race to the bridge.
The little horse won, and dashed over ahead of their foremost horses.
But he was only ahead--there were not six feet between them, and he
crossed amid a shower of balls, and almost hidden by the smoke of their
rifles. Bischoff lay flat on the saddle, and trusted everything to
the horse. The bridge crossed, he soon widened the gap, and in a few
minutes bore Bischoff triumphantly among his friends.
It was a fearful ride across that valley. The road, level and straight,
did not shelter us from the enemy. Trees had fallen across it, and
there were deep bog holes, into which horses plunged and fell. As you
rode, you came upon a man whose horse had fallen in leaping a tree, or
mired in struggling through a mud hole. Here was one who had risen, and
was trying to escape to the neighboring woods, and there another, who
could not extricate himself from his fallen horse. As I looked back and
watched the fate of those I knew, I saw the first of the enemy, as they
came up, fire upon our prostrate men. It looked as though no quarter
was given. Before I had ridden far, I came upon the captain of the
second squadron standing in the road. He had been wounded and unhorsed.
I endeavored to pull up and take him behind me; but my horse, excited
and fractious, reared and plunged so that I could not stop. I called
to the captain to take another horse, led by one of the men. He did
so, but in a few moments was thrown, and before he could rise, found
himself surrounded and a prisoner.
At length we emerged from this, to us dark vale, and felt our horses
tread firm ground. We had gained a little on the enemy, and were just
beyond the reach of their guns. I got the men formed once more into
column, and the retreat, though still at a gallop, became orderly. I
asked after the other officers; two had escaped and were with us; three
were captured, and the major had been shot near the bridge, falling
beside one of my men. I was therefore again in command, and had to
determine speedily on a plan.
There had been with us a farmer, named Gibbs, mounted on a white
mule, which ran like a deer. Gibbs was perfectly cool, and when we
came out of the valley, he had pulled out a plug of tobacco and taken
a customary bite, with the remark that he guessed we were all right
now. I asked Gibbs if he knew the road to Hickman, on the Mississippi.
To which he replied: "Oh, yes." "Then come with me," I said, "and
lead us there;" and I took him to the head of the column. Telling the
sergeant who led to follow Gibbs, I fell out and began to drop back
to the rear. Unfortunately, the white mule would not lead, and in a
few moments Gibbs rejoined me. I then took a couple of young men, who
were also escaping with us, up to the head, and giving them the same
directions, again fell back. Unluckily, excited and riding on a gallop
by moonlight, they passed the Hickman, and continued on the Paducah
road.
Gibbs fell out of the column, and rejoined me, as it passed. I told him
he had better not run this unnecessary risk; but he said he had been
offered $200 for his mule, and would risk anything with it. Bischoff
also fell out, and we three rode at the rear. We did not ride so long.
Suddenly from the bushes and woods on the side of the road, there was a
flash; and bang! bang! came the fire of our hidden foes. In an instant
every horse was at full speed, rushing by. My own gave a wild bound.
Poor Tennessee! he had been acting nobly from the first, and I thought
he was only excited by the firing. My attention was chiefly upon the
men, but as I gathered up the curb-rein to check him, I noticed that
it was gone on the side next to the firing. Still I did not think he
had been hit. But he put his head down, and rushed between Gibbs and
Bischoff. They caught him by the bridle, but in a moment he had dragged
them half off their saddles. I told them to let go, and he dashed
forward, striking madly against the horse in front. The concussion
sent us over to the ditch, but he did not stop. With his head down,
and running straight as an arrow, he flew by the entire column. I
returned my sabre to the scabbard, and winding the snaffle-rein round
my wrists, made every effort to stop him. It was in vain. I exerted all
my strength; I used all the art I was master of, or that Mr. Rarey had
taught; I drew his head from side to side, till his mouth touched the
stirrups; but he went on, on, on at the same furious pace. The road lay
through thick woods and down a series of steep hills. On one of these
it turned. The horse refused to follow its windings, and kept straight
on. It was like a locomotive rushing through the woods. There were
two trees before me, close together. On he went, dashing between them.
He struck against one and reeled, but did not fall. Beyond, and on the
steepest of the hill, lay a fallen tree. His head was down almost to
his knees, and I knew he could not see. I made a great, a last effort
to raise him. It failed--the tree seemed under me--there was a crash--a
blow--and I lay on the ground, the horse struggling on top of me.
I tried, vainly, to rise and remount; but my right arm hung useless,
and I felt dizzy and weak, while my good horse still struggled on the
ground. Yet the enemy were coming. I dragged myself quickly down the
bank, at the foot of which ran a little stream. As I reached it, I
heard the gallop of horses on the hill above me. "My sabre," I said,
"must not fall into their hands." I unbuckled it quickly, and gave it
a last look. It was the parting gift of my best friends, and had been
my constant companion by day and by night. I could not bear to part
with it thus. For an instant I hesitated. "Perhaps they will not see
me," I said; "but no, the risk is too great; whatever happens to me,
they shall not have the sabre." A log lay across the brook. I leaned
forward, and under its shadow, threw the sabre in. It splashed in the
dark water and was gone. "Shall I throw my pistol after it? No! it will
be but a pistol more for the Confederacy. Here they come." I stretched
myself close beside the bank, and the party of horsemen galloped by.
IX.
THE ESCAPE.
I was now alone in the quiet woods. The sounds of trampling horses
had died away, and the little rill beside me trickled peacefully in
the still night. I reached my hand down, and, filling my glove with
water, poured it over my face. It was cool and refreshing, and in a few
moments I was able to rise. I looked at the stream--at the log, beneath
which lay my sabre--and at the tree, beneath which lay my horse; and
then, making an effort, I stepped upon the log, and crossed into the
thick brushwood on the other side. But a few steps were taken when I
was glad to sit down upon a fallen tree. I felt stunned and faint, yet
hoped I was gathering strength and would soon be able to go on. As I
was thus seated the question arose, What should I do? Fort Henry, I
knew, was eastward of me. Should I go there?--it was but thirty-five
or forty miles. No! the country between must be swarming with rebels.
Should I go to Paducah? It was sixty miles northward, and the enemy
would, doubtless, follow in that direction. Should I remain hidden in
the woods, trusting to their leaving in a few days? Should I crawl to
some barn or stack, and take the chance of their not searching it?
Would my strength hold out if I went on? and would the fractured bone,
that I felt under my coat, and the growing pain in my side, do without
the surgeon's care till I could make my way out?
At length I decided on my course: I would go northward till daylight,
and thus be some miles ahead; then I would turn eastward, and thus
place myself on one side of their probable line of march. During the
next day I hoped to meet a contraband, and, obtaining information,
then decide whether to continue eastward, toward Fort Henry, or turn
northward again to Paducah.
Thus deciding, I took out my handkerchief and tied my pistol round my
waist, and then rose from the tree to begin my journey. The broken
ribs made it painful to breathe, and my right arm had to be supported
constantly by my left. Around me, all was beautiful and serene. The
calm moon shone, in peaceful contrast with the exciting scene I had
lately witnessed, and lighted my steps and pointed my way. No sound
disturbed the stillness of the woods, save that from a distant farm
there came the tinkle of a cow-bell. It was in the direction I wished
to go, and toward it I slowly made my way. A friend had brought me down
the April number of the "Atlantic" before leaving camp, and I had read
Whittier's "Mountain Pictures." A line of it came to my mind:
"The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung;"
and I wondered whether any other reader would ever thus apply it.
I had to walk slowly through the silvery-lighted woods; but at last
drew near the ringing noise, and climbed the hill, on the top of which
were the farm and barnyard of the cows. A road ran along the brow of
the hill, and on the other side of it appeared some wide fields. To
the left was a clump of apple-trees, and the hoarse bark of a dog told
me they covered a house. I stopped a few moments to rest and listen,
and then stepped cautiously into the road. On the opposite side was a
large tree, and in its shadow I tried to climb the high rail fence. I
was weaker than I had supposed. My limbs refused at first to lift my
weight, and my one arm could not keep me from swinging round against
the fence. Twice I thought I must give it up; but, after several
efforts, I mounted it, and then, holding my breath, I let myself drop
down on the other side.
Across the wide field there was another road. I had not gone far when
I heard a noise in the woods, and, fearing it might be a picket of the
enemy, I lay down beside the fence. The moon was then near the horizon,
and I deemed it most prudent to wait till she had set.
Soon after this I came upon some cows, and these I drove before me. I
thought that if there should be a picket in the road the cows would
turn off, and there would be less likelihood of my being seen or heard.
After going, I should think, a mile, we came to a broad road. This the
cows crossed; and I was about to follow, when a large dog came from a
house beyond, and, after barking furiously at the cows, came toward
me. I took my pistol out, and was prepared to fire, when the dog
stopped barking. It was well for me he did so, for within a few yards
I heard horses coming up the road. I looked, and saw the outline of
some horsemen. There was no time to fly. I sank quietly down upon the
ground, and lay still. The horsemen came on. They seemed a picket. One
rode in front, who seemed a sergeant, and the others followed. They
passed close by me--so close, I could hear the jingling of their spurs.
When they had passed I rose, and determined that thereafter I would not
go upon any road or cross any field, or spare any pains. I entered the
woods. They were now thick, with underbrush, and I had not the moon to
guide me. Frequently I had wanted the North star on night marches, but
it had always been hidden by clouds. Now, however, on this night, when
I needed it above all others, it shone out beautiful and bright. As I
watched it, it seemed an old friend, reappearing to aid me, and again
and again as I emerged from some thick underwood, and turned toward
its constant blaze, I felt as if it were the companion of my flight.
But even with its aid, I encountered difficulties. Sometimes the trees
would hide it, and often I had to keep my eyes fixed on my path or
strained on suspicious objects around me. My plan was to take some
distant hill for a land-mark, and on reaching it, to look for another,
and make toward it. Yet fallen trees and deep hollows often made me
change my course, and sometimes made me lose it, and then I had to
search the sky, and refind the star before I could go on. As I could
not use my hands, I was forced to push my way through the brush with my
left shoulder. I had lost my hat, too, in the fall, and my hair often
caught in the branches. So my progress was slow and wearisome, with no
help around me, but with hope before.
I should think it was about three o'clock in the morning, when, from
the top of a little hill, there appeared just before me the smoking,
smouldering fires of a camp. I knew if it were a camp, that I was
within the lines. I turned, therefore, and made my way back as a
burglar might glide through a house--sliding my feet along the ground,
lest I should tread upon some crackling branch--choosing the thickest
wood and the darkest shade. About an hour later, I saw, as I thought,
some tents, but knew it was most improbable there should be any there;
so I stopped to examine, and then saw they were but the grey light
of morning breaking through the trees. It was a welcome sight; yet I
confess the night had not seemed long, and that I was surprised to find
the morning come.
I now changed my course, and turned toward the east. The woods changed
too. There were small trees, with little underbrush, and the ground
was a smooth, descending plain. I kept on over this for miles. The sky
brightened; the sun rose, and mounted higher and higher. I heard the
barking of dogs, the lowing of cattle, and occasionally the voices of
men and children. I came, too, upon roads, and these had to be crossed
with great caution, coming out step by step, looking carefully up and
down, listening anxiously, and they hurrying across and plunging into
the woods on the other side. Whence these roads came or where they
went, I neither knew nor cared. I was ignorant of the country, but not
compelled to ask my way. For once, I was strangely independent, and
needed only to look toward the sun and travel east.
Later I came upon fields and farms, and round these I had to make long
circuits. One chain of farms, I thought I never should get through.
Again and again I was forced to go back and try again. The temptation
to break through my resolution, and cross just this one, or that one,
was very strong; and I found that making one's escape, like any other
success, depends on his resolution and perseverance.
Toward noon, as I was approaching a road, I heard children's voices. I
looked, and saw, or thought I saw, a man on horseback. He sat still as
though on guard, and I supposed he was one of the enemy's picket. The
woods were thin, so I lay down and drew the bushes over me. I watched
him, but he did not move, and I soon decided I must stay there as long
as he did. Notwithstanding my anxiety, I fell into a doze, probably
not for a minute, yet when I opened my eyes, the man was gone, and a
tree stood in his place. It was an optical illusion. My eyes had been
over-worked for three nights, and for the last twenty hours, constantly
strained in examining objects far and near. The moment's rest had
dispelled the apparition. I remembered that as the sun was rising that
morning, I had long doubted whether a clump of bushes was not a group
of my own men--that trees and stumps had several times been changed to
sentinels and guards; and I remembered, also, the tents in the morning,
and the camp-fires during the night.
I now began to suffer from thirst, for I could only drink by dipping up
water with one hand. The sun, too, beat down through the half-leaved
trees, and became painful. I twisted some leaves into a sort of cap,
but it was often brushed off, and at best made but a poor shelter. I
had been disappointed also in not meeting a contraband. Some I had seen
in fields, but always with white men, and them I must shun; and as I
did so, I asked myself whether this was the United States, and these
Americans, that I should be time skulking like a hunted criminal.
Feeling now and then a little faint, I decided on going to a house
for something to eat, and again plunging into the woods. Yet here
great caution was necessary. I wanted a small house, because it would
probably contain but one man, and I must have it out of sight of
neighbors and near woods. I passed several, but none of them complied
with my conditions--one was too large, another too far back in an open
field, and a third was overlooked by a fourth.
It was perhaps three o'clock, and I was growing more and more faint,
when I saw an opening through the trees and the corner of a house. I
approached it slowly. There was a field beyond, but no houses in sight,
and the woods came up to the yard behind. "It is just the house I
need," I said to myself, "and now I must risk it and go in." I slipped
my pistol round, so that I could draw it quickly from under my coat,
and pushed open the gate. All was quiet; I walked round to the door,
and saw a woman inside, who looked startled at seeing me. She said she
would call her husband, who was in the field, and went out. I watched
her, and in a few minutes was satisfied by seeing them returning. I
went back, and narrowly inspected the house. A shot gun hung over the
window, but it was unloaded and rusted. As I finished, they came in. He
was a young man, with a bright, happy face--far too cheerful a face for
a secessionist. We looked at each other, and he said:
"You are a Union soldier."
"Yes," I answered; "and what are you?"
"I am a Union citizen," he replied.
The word "Union" was something of a talisman; if he had been a rebel,
he would have said Federal.
James Mills (for such was my new-found friend's name) was the first of
several suffering and devoted Union men, who refused all pay and reward
for the services they rendered to me, and whose kindness I cannot
sufficiently praise. He told me I was in a dangerous neighborhood, and
must neither stay, nor travel by the road. His wife hurried for me a
dinner, and then he went with me through some fields and woods, and
placed me upon a path leading to a second Union man's, named Henry
Chunn. It was something like three miles to Mr. Chunn's, but I felt
quite fresh and equal to a dozen, if necessary.
Arriving there, I was most kindly received by his wife. She told me
that her husband would cheerfully take me on toward Paducah. She made
me lie down; she bathed my shoulder; and she did everything for me that
womanly kindness could suggest. This was the first bed I had lain upon
for more than three months. It produced an old effect, for in a few
moments I was sound asleep. I slept till after dark, and then awoke by
hearing the children cry that father had come. He came in, and walking
up to me, said, in a cordial, honest voice:
"My friend, I am truly glad to see you; you are truly welcome to my
house."
I went to sleep again and slept till morning. There was bad news then:
his mules had disappeared from the barnyard during the night. But I
must wait; his boys would find them by the time we finished breakfast.
At breakfast a little circumstance occurred which may give you an idea
of the different life we lead on the border. Across some fields, and
beyond some woods, we heard a gun. It was no cannon--a mere shot-gun,
such as a boy might fire anywhere on a spring morning--yet we all
stopped talking.
"What does that mean?" I asked, after the silence had continued a few
moments.
"I don't know," said Mr. Chunn.
"Have your neighbors guns and powder?"
"No."
"Then," said I, "it may mean a great deal for us."
We all rose from the table, and looked anxiously across the fields;
but nothing was to be seen. The family looked troubled, and Mr. Chunn
said something about the mules being gone, and this being strange. We
waited some time, but all continued quiet. But the boys had not found
the mules, and Mr. Chunn accordingly walked on with me toward the house
of Mr. Edward Magness, who was likewise a good Union man, and would
willingly help me on.
I took leave of these kind, simple-minded people, whose plain and
honest goodness is rare in the great world, from which they live apart,
and went slowly along the little wood road. I soon came to a field in
which were two or three men and several children, planting corn. I
must here explain to you that in the South corn is the one great crop
on which everybody lives. The bread is all made of corn; the horses
are fed on corn; the pigs are fattened on corn; and if the corn should
fail there would be a famine. There were fears that it would fail. The
spring had been cold and wet, and the planting was not half done, which
always had been over a week before. All hands were working early and
late on every plantation, seizing on this fine weather for hurrying in
the corn. As Mr. Magness came down a furrow, near me, I stepped out
of the bushes, and told him briefly who I was, and what I wanted. It
must have been an unwelcome tale; yet he never, by a look or word,
gave a disagreeable sign. Promptly he stopped his plough and unhitched
his horses. Unwillingly I saw the planting cease. But when I spoke of
it, he said pleasantly, they would try and make up the lost time when
he came back. We went to his house, the saddles were soon put on, and
we started. My companion was more than usually intelligent, and gave
me much information. He also understood the danger of being seen by
secessionists, and picked his way with great care by unused roads.
A ride of several miles brought us to the house of Mr. Wade. A very
shrewd and cautious man was Mr. Wade, yet a staunch Union man, who
had spoken, and suffered for the cause. He had spent the previous
eight months chiefly at Paducah, stealing up occasionally in the dark
of evening to see his family, and leaving before daylight the next
morning. Once he had been arrested, and twice his house had been
searched and robbed. He knew well the woods and by-paths, and had tried
the difficulties and dangers of escaping from guerrillas. He and I,
therefore, had much more in common than the others, and in him I felt
I had a trusty and experienced friend; yet strange to tell, he was--_a
South Carolinian_.
We went into the house. On a couch lay a very aged woman, who, I
thought, was childish. Mr. Wade and Mr. Magness were old friends, and
talked as country neighbors talk, of crops, and roads, and men, and
places. At last Mr. Magness said: "I saw Edward Jones yesterday, and he
told me they had had a letter from Joel, and that he wrote they were
leaving Corinth, and had been attacked. His regiment was defeated, and
he had to run for his life."
The old lady, at this, rose up and said: "Say that over, sir."
Mr. Magness repeated it.
"He is my own grandson," said the old lady. "The night before he went
he came here, and I told him never to fight against his country--the
country his forefathers fought for. He said, 'Grandmother, they will
call me a coward if I don't go.' A coward! I would let them call me
anything, I told him, before I would fight against my country. But he
went. And, now, what do you tell me? He is my own grandson--my own
flesh and blood--so I can't wish him killed," said the old lady, with
great feeling; "but, I thank God--I thank God _he has had to run for
his life_!"
Our early dinner finished, Mr. Magness took his departure, and we
started.
"We will stop at my brother-in-law's, captain," said Mr. Wade, "and get
you a better saddle. It is only a mile from here." So we rode quietly
along.
"We will pass our member of Assembly," said Mr. Wade. "It is about a
mile from my brother-in-law's. He is a true man, I tell you. The secesh
would give anything to get him."
By this time we reached his brother-in-law's. A little girl was in the
yard, and, as we stopped, came to the gate.
"Well, uncle," said the little girl, "are you running away again from
the rebel soldiers?"
"No," said Mr. Wade, cheerfully, "--oh no: there are no rebels round
now."
"Yes, there are," said the girl. "Father has just come from Farmington,
and there are four hundred there."
"What! four hundred in Farmington!"
"It is so, brother," said a woman who had come out--"it is so.
They came there this morning; and husband hurried back to tell the
neighbors."
"Captain," said Mr. Wade, "the sooner you and I get out of this country
the better for us."
"How far is it back to Farmington?"
"Only four miles."
"Is there any reason for their coming down this road?"
"Yes: Hinckley, the member we elected, lives on it, and Jones, who
helped elect him, lives on it, and I live on it. They would like to
arrest us all. But about half a mile from Hinckley's there is a little
side-path we can take for five or six miles."