Chapter XXI…

Chapter XXI

MARYLAND "REFUGEES"--COERCING INTO THE UNION EAST TENNESSEE "REFUGEES"--PARSON BROWNLOW INTERVIEWED--A HAPPY EXPERIENCE WITH MAGGIE CRAIG--THE BATTLE OF MILL SPRING--FIRST UNION VICTORY AS SEEN FROM INSIDE THE REBEL ARMY.

I reluctantly take the reader away from the Rebel Capital and its attractions. I was leaving Richmond at least, somewhat against my own inclination.

While lying curled up in a seat in the old emigrant car, that was being used to transport the troops, sleeping, and, perhaps, dreaming of "the girl I left behind me," I was roughly awakened by a sharp bump on the end of our train that sent me bouncing off the seat against the back of the one in front. When I hurriedly picked myself up and looked around me wildly, I realized that something had happened; and, as everybody else seemed to be rushing to the doors and windows, I made a reckless break in the same direction, but before I could get into the aisle of the car the floor of our car in the vicinity of where I was standing seemed to rise up suddenly. In the same instant I found that something had caught me by the left leg near my knee, which held me as in a vise. In my desperate struggles to extricate myself, I threw myself violently backward, my head striking the iron corner of an adjoining seat. I succeeded in breaking loose, but only after the car had come to a stop, and the danger was all past.

It was only a run-off, that caused the truck under our car to turn and twist itself upside down in such a way as to force part of the woodwork through the floor, resulting in squeezing my leg against the seat, so that it cut deeply into the flesh and left a mark big enough to entitle me to a pension--when the Rebel soldiers get their turn.

This happened near a little town located close upon the Virginia and East Tennessee line, named I think, Abington. We laid off there to repair damages--to the railroad. None of us were hurt seriously enough to require more than a patching up, which our private surgeon was competent to do. The accident, however, gave me an opportunity to meet, for the first time in many months, something that was pretty scarce in the Eastern part of Virginia at that time, namely--an outspoken Union man, who was also a native of Virginia.

When we learned that we should be delayed there until a couple of cars could be brought out to replace the broken ones, the Colonel and I concluded to strike out for ourselves, in search of some warm meals and perhaps a bed. With his assistance I limped along to a house standing some distance from the railroad track, where we applied for entertainment, offering pay for the same.

A tall, lank man met us pleasantly at his gate, and to our proposition he replied in a cordial, though dignified, manner so foreign to his appearance and surroundings that I was surprised.

"If you young gentlemen will step inside my house, my wife, no doubt, will be pleased to entertain you."

Inside the large, old-fashioned country house, such as I had seen more frequently in Pennsylvania than in Virginia, we were introduced to "Mother," as a couple of young gentlemen who had been belated by the railroad mishap, and desired some warm food.

I had been a soldier long enough then to understand, in a vague sort of a way, that the term "gentleman" was not properly applied to common soldiers, though we endeavored, by our conduct, to merit the title at this time. It was my zealous Rebel friend, the Colonel, who got into an argument with our host over the war question.

It was brought about by something that was said during the natural inquiries that follow such meetings as to where we came from, etc., when the Colonel rather boastfully, perhaps, informed him that we were a band of exiles from Maryland. We had enjoyed so much homage on this score while in Richmond that it had become a second nature to us to expect it as a matter of course from all quarters, and when this West Virginia gentleman rather quizzingly observed:

"Well, now, Mother, isn't this remarkable. Here are some Maryland secessionists being sent away down here to Tennessee to punish and coerce Unionists?"

It seems that this Unionist, who lived in what is now West Virginia, was a member of the State Legislature, and who was also a citizen of some prominence, highly esteemed, and looked upon as one of the leaders of this band of Unionists that devotedly remained steadfastly loyal throughout the war.

The general tenor of the conversation had the effect of reviving my interest, and served to stir anew my zeal for the cause. It also gave me a wonderful appetite for the old-fashioned, home-like meal that the good mother had been preparing for us, while the other fellows were talking. That I enjoyed the good, warm supper more than the Colonel, was evident to all the household, because he had permitted the talk to raise his choler so that he was scarcely in a suitable frame of mind to appreciate the kind attention of the lady.

They declined our proffered pay for the entertainment, which had so generously been furnished. As we were about to leave, and while the Colonel and the host were yet predicting, each in his own way, all sorts of terrible dangers, I could not resist the temptation, while saying "Good-by" to the old lady, to quietly whisper to her that I was heartily glad to have met with a Union family; that I was reminded of home very much by the visit, and I would soon be home, too. She was so surprised at my manner that she wasn't able to answer.

What the Colonel got from the old man as a parting salute I don't know, only that it made him very cross and had the disagreeable effect of causing him to want to walk back to the train faster than I was able to keep up in my crippled condition.

We passed through Greenville, in East Tennessee, which was pointed out to us as the home of Senator Andy Johnson, of Tennessee. I should have liked to stop over here to have visited the residence and met some of the friends of Senator Johnson, who had been so much interested in my Southern experiences, but our train only remained a little while. We moved along slowly enough, stopping at what I thought must be every side-track on the road, to meet some trains that were due from the opposite direction, but which seemed never to come.

The burning of several of the bridges by Unionists, or those who were charged with being Unionists, had put the railroad people all out of their regular reckoning, causing this general delay of the trains.

By reason of my rather close official and personal relations with the Captain of our company, I was enabled by some quiet questioning to learn from him in advance of the rest of the boys that our destination was Knoxville, Tennessee, or, as he termed it in the military phrases that we learned to use so aptly, "Knoxville was to be our base of operations, but our objective point was probably Cumberland Gap, that being the nearest point of probable contact with the enemy."

I was very glad to learn that there was to be something that looked like a contact, because, now that I had left Richmond and Virginia, my entire purpose and aim was to get back home as quickly as possible, and they couldn't "advance on the enemy" any too quickly for me. In thus coming down to Tennessee to get to Washington, the old saying was realized in my case, that "The nearest way home often leads the farthest way round."

We reached Knoxville on a cold, cheerless day. A crowd of Yankee troops could not have met with a more chilling reception in any town in the South than was accorded to the Maryland Refugee's Rebel Battery--both by the people and the weather.

I had become rather accustomed, like the rest of the Maryland fellows, to expect complimentary observations on our self-sacrificing spirit, in exiling ourselves from our homes for the good of the Southern cause. We didn't get any of this sort of taffy in East Tennessee. I thought I was the only man in the crowd who felt like resenting this "outrageous treatment," as they all felt it to be; but, as will be seen hereafter, there were others besides myself in this battery of Maryland refugees who secretly enjoyed the discomfiture of our officers and men at the hands of the Tennessee Unionists.

To me it was most refreshing to meet with an outspoken Union man. Of course, they were--at this time--somewhat careful in their expressions of dissent to the Southern cause, but we all understood, in a general way, that those who were not outspoken in their sentiments for the South were opposed to secession and the war, and as the outspoken element was just then mighty scarce, the inference was that the majority was against us.

Quarters had been provided for our crowd in what must have been a deserted old mansion house, which was situated--as nearly as I can remember--on a road near the outskirts of the town. I think it was the Swan House. If the house is still there, I am sure I will find it when I go down there to revisit and renew some old but not forgotten friendships, and, perhaps, may be able to practice some amateur photography on it and some of the "scenes" which are related in this chapter, that I may supply some friendly reader hereafter.

On account of the accident up the road, which had bruised me up so that I was becoming quite lame and helpless, it was arranged that I should find a private house in which to live until I could sufficiently recuperate to stand the travel on horseback.

It is likely that I was indebted to my constant friend's (the Colonel) consideration for securing me comfortable quarters in the home of a refined family, who lived in that section of the town known, I think, as East Knoxville. The name was Craig. I am giving the correct names here, because I am desirous, even at this late date, of acknowledging an indebtedness to this family for their many kindnesses to me, as well, also, that I may explain to them and the other residents of that city some of my actions that, at the time, must have been bewildering in the light they then had. If they have thought of me at all since I was their guest in 1861, the lapse of twenty-five years has not served to further enlighten them, and will be, at least, a gratification to them as well as to myself.

Mr. Craig was an official at the County Court House, located in the other end of the town--I think either the Prothonotory or County Clerk. He was rather an old gentleman at that time and is scarcely living now, but his family of accomplished daughters, who were then at home, if living, will no doubt recall their soldier guest of 1861.

Mine host was one of those old-fashioned gentlemen, who was able to entertain a visitor handsomely without asking questions; it was understood that he was or, at least, had been a Union man. On this important question, at that time, he was the most agreeably non-committal man in his own house of any person I have ever met. The wife and mother, like the father, was all attention and kindness to the needs of the poor soldiers, never stopping a moment to inquire whether they were of the North or the South.

There was a daughter, Mary, who was decidedly and emphatically a warm-hearted "Female Rebel." An elder sister, Miss Maggie, whom I will only attempt to describe as a most amiable, sweet girl, with dark, wavy, auburn hair, was the Union girl of the family; though not as outspoken or decided in her way of expressing herself, she was, nevertheless, settled in her conviction that the Government was right and that slavery was wrong; and she put it, at the time, in a way that was comforting to me:

"It's not right; slavery is a sin and an evil, and it will not be permitted to exist."

Of course, Miss Maggie became a favorite with me during the week or two that I remained confined to the house by the bruises which had been so aggravated by the cold and neglect into something that threatened serious results. She was the good angel of the family, and attended to my every need as if I were an only brother returned from the war to receive her nursing and tender care.

There was also a younger sister, Laura, perhaps about twelve or fourteen years old, the little beauty of the family, with dark eyes and long, curling hair, whose political sentiments, sweetly and disdainfully expressed, agreed with those of the Rebel sister. All of the family were, however, kind and good, and, in the almost constant discussion of the merits of the two sides, not an unkind or harsh word was spoken of either.

At every meal-time the old gentleman reverently asked a blessing over the table, and usually lengthened it into prayers for both sides.

Around the corner from Mr. Craig's house, on a lot that almost joined the Craig property, in the rear, was the house of Parson Brownlow. At the time of which I am writing Mr. Brownlow was achieving national reputation by his bold and defiant stand against the Southern leaders, and his outspoken, belligerent Union sentiments had gotten him into all sorts of trouble with Jeff Davis' Government.

I had heard of Parson Brownlow all my life, having been raised in a Methodist family. Before the war I had been much interested in his denominational discussions with the Baptists of Tennessee, the accounts of which were printed at the time.

The Craig family were, I think, Baptists, and probably on this account they were, as Miss Craig politely put it, "Neighborly, but not intimate," with the Brownlow family.

It seemed as if the family had always been in hot water. There was a son, who had either killed somebody or been killed himself. Another boy was around stirring things up in a way that made the old town lively. The old gentleman owned and edited a paper--the Knoxville Whig--that circulated pretty much everywhere, and served to stir people and things up, not only in East Tennessee, but all over the country.

At the time of which I am writing, the parson had been arrested, by order of the Rebel Government, for his outspoken Union sentiments, and was a prisoner in his own house.

I thought at the time of my visit that, personally, Mr. Brownlow and his family did not seem to receive much sympathy from his immediate neighbors, though politically the town was in full accord with his sentiments.

The members of the family were, however, quite able to take care of themselves. They seemed to be entirely indifferent as to the opinions on the propriety of their course that other people might entertain.

Mr. Brownlow himself was a rather tall, gaunt, smooth-faced old gentleman; just such an appearance as one would expect to find in the pioneer backwoods Methodist preacher of the Peter Cartwright stamp.

His smooth face, which was strongly marked, was rather expressionless, reminding one somewhat of an Indian. The cheek-bones were prominent, and his under lips protruded, which, with his touseled hair, gave him something of a belligerent air.

I saw him frequently, and it always seemed to me as if his broad lower jaw snapped open and shut when he spoke, something like an automatic machine that one sees the ventriloquists working on the stage. On my youthful and inquisitive mind, at the time, was created the impression that he never spoke at all except to "jaw" somebody or something. I'm not attempting a criticism of Parson Brownlow. Everybody knows that every time he opened his mouth he said something, and that his words to-day are quoted all over the land. It was his abrupt manner that seemed so odd and harsh to me, when compared with the mild, courteously-spoken words of the official and Unionist, Mr. Craig, my host--the two persons being so closely associated in my mind and observation daily.

The home of Parson Brownlow was one of the plain, old-time structures that are to be met with by the hundred in every town of like size and character as Knoxville. It was situated in what would be called a back street; it was not so pretentious, but probably fully as comfortable as some of the houses on the front streets.

Of course, there was a porch in front of the house extending over each side of the front door. The only difference in the style of architecture in this particular porch from all the others was, that on account of its abutting too closely on the pavement, or slab-stone walk, the steps led down from each side of the porch into the little front yard instead of straight in front on to the pavement.

At the time of my visit there was another ornament or decoration to the Parson's front door-steps that was not to be seen on the other houses, in the form of living statuary, representing Confederate soldiers in gray uniforms, and with loaded muskets in their hands, who were on guard as sentries over the person of the Parson, who was then a State prisoner.

He was subsequently removed to jail and compelled to live in a damp disagreeable pen, that had been used for years as the slave-cage for runaway niggers. This was rough, but it's true, as I can testify.

One reason, perhaps, for his removal to the jail has not been given by himself or his friends. As I have said, the Brownlows were a peculiar people--"devilish peculiar," in fact.

While we can all admire the pluck and spirit of the family, which resented the presence of armed Rebel soldiers on their own door step--their castle--one can not help but feel that a little discretion, mixed up with their abundant spirit, would have brought out more satisfactory results.

The Parson's combativeness must have been in the blood of the family, as it was not confined to himself and his sons, but was exhibited while I was there, in a striking manner, by one of his daughters. For some fancied or real offense on the part of one of the guards, who was stationed at her father's door with a loaded gun in his hands, Miss Brownlow, after deliberately giving the soldier and his officer "a piece of her mind," coolly walked up to the guard and vigorously and repeatedly slapped him in the face, and kept up her attack until the man actually backed down off the side of the porch, while the officer of the guard, who was with him, hastily scrambled down on the other side, leaving her in possession of the entrance to the castle.

The incident had a widespread notoriety at the time, when the facts reached the North; the affair was widely published throughout the country with many exaggerations. I did not witness this affair, but gathered from the Misses Craig and others what is probably the true story.

My confinement to the house of my good friends, the Craigs, though sick and sometimes suffering, was made to me the most agreeable two weeks of my trip South, all through the kind care and attention of the family. Miss Maggie and myself seemed to be nearest in accord in our sentiments, not only of the war, but maybe of love and peace and, through her pleasant friendship, I was enabled to lose, in a manner, some of my interest in the far-away Capitola.

By the exercise of some diplomacy, necessitating a good deal of talking and some shameful lying to a young and innocent girl, I induced Miss Maggie and her sister to take me down to the Brownlow house, as a visitor who was desirous of meeting the now celebrated family.

I did not dare to intimate to Miss Maggie that I sympathized deeply with the cause of the Brownlows; in fact, I never admitted to a living soul, not one--not even after my return from my trips--the true character and purpose of the undertaking. An elder sister, having some doubts about the Brownlows' probable reception of a visitor in a gray blouse uniform, thought it advisable to arrange the matter beforehand, and sent the little girl around to the house one day with a polite note, stating that a Maryland soldier desired the pleasure of their acquaintance.

The mother looked with some disfavor on the proceeding, but, of course, Maggie and I accomplished our purpose, and the note was returned with a verbal answer to "Come ahead." This was not exactly as encouraging a response as we had hoped for, but, after a little fun from the mother and older sister over our probable reception, they arranged among themselves for a short call during the afternoon.

I was gathering information; and, feeling secure through my supposed sympathy with Mr. Brownlow, I had not the least hesitancy about meeting him personally; I did not consider the family failings at all. I knew, too, that I should soon leave there for home--my mind was already settled on that--and I could travel now without the fear of meeting any persons who had known me at Manassas, Richmond, or Pensacola. My plans were to reach the Union lines at the nearest point, which was then Cumberland Gap.

As I have tried to explain, the Brownlows' residence was just around the corner, so that it was like a neighborly "run in for a little while" for the Misses Craig to escort their guest around to their house that afternoon.

The Parson being a prisoner in his own house, his guard was under strict orders not to permit any communication between the imprisoned, fighting preacher and his Union friends.

To make this military order thoroughly effective, the officer of the guard had found that it was necessary to make it general, so as to exclude everybody, as it was well seen that the population were almost unanimously loyal, the visitors to the Brownlow family were most likely to be enemies to the Rebel Government, or, at least, Unionist suspects.

When we reached the door, where we encountered the guard, Miss Craig left to me the task of overcoming the obstruction of a loaded musket in the hands of a soldier in gray. I am not sure whether it was the shameful lies I told the guard, the gray uniform I was wearing, or the pleasant, smiling face of my companion that had the effect of inducing the man in charge so suddenly to change, yield and admit us into the house without question. But I have always inclined to the belief that the influence was the large, imploring, brown eyes of my lady companion, which were brought to bear on the guard. I remember that we had some talk after the visit closed about this guard, who kept his eyes more closely on Miss Maggie, during our visit, than either on the prisoner or the other surroundings.

Once over the threshold, we had yet to encounter the old lion in his den, or, more properly speaking, the wounded bear in his hole.

The weather was so cold that a fire was necessary, which fact was impressed on my mind by our introduction into the Parson's presence, his first salutation being a request to "shut the door," and then at once apologizing in a mild, apologetic manner; he complained of the rough usage he had been obliged to submit to in his own house, by the guard insisting upon opening doors through his hall whenever they saw fit. He, and more especially his wife, imagined they did more of this than was necessary, for the sole purpose of annoying him. Mrs. Brownlow insisted that the purpose of the soldiers was to kill her husband by exposing him to these draughts during his illness.

The Parson had been quite seriously ill for some time. The sickness was incurred by his terrible exposures, first while an outcast or exile in the mountains, and subsequently by the miserably mean and hoggish treatment while confined in the Knoxville slave-pen cage among the crowded Unionists.

The complete story of the imprisonment, sufferings and brutal treatment of the hundreds of Unionists, among whom were some old men of seventy-five years; embracing in the list of martyrs, preachers, lawyers, judges, as well as others of the most prominent and respectable people of that section, simply because they were Unionists--or had dared to be loyal to the Government, or even entertained at a remote period an opinion on the subject different from that of the Rebel--would excel in many respects the horrors of Andersonville. I regret that I can not in this narrative tell half of my own observation, but perhaps some one will yet write the true story of East Tennessee in 1861-62.

While I was there as a Rebel soldier, I witnessed one sight alone, not one horrible feature of which has been effaced from my memory, and which has not--that I can recall--been made generally public. I refer to the double execution of an old man of seventy, a respected class-leader in the Methodist Church, and his son. The old man was obliged to hear first the dreadful shrieks of innocent protest from his son's lips, and though the boy's cries pierced even the hearts of the New Orleans wharf-rats, who had the execution in charge, the old man was brutally compelled by Colonel Ledbetter to gaze upon the dreadful, horrible agony of his son on the scaffold, where he himself was to be hung in a few moments.

At the time of our visit, Brother Brownlow was snugly wrapped up in one of those old-fashioned, striped shawls, that probably belonged to his wife's wardrobe. He sat that afternoon in a great, old, hickory rocking-chair, with his stocking feet perched on another chair, looking at me, at first sight, more like a sick old woman than such a dangerous character as to require the constant attendance of a large armed guard at his door, day and night. His face was thin, and his general appearance of emaciation showed the effects of his recent sickness and sufferings. I can well recall the queer expression of wondering scrutiny in the big eyes of the old Parson, as he slowly turned to me when I was introduced by his neighbor's daughter as a "refugee" soldier from Maryland. That he was a little bit suspicious as to the object of this visit under such circumstances is not to be wondered at, when his surroundings at the time are remembered.

As a consequence, perhaps, Mr. Brownlow was not inclined to talk to me, more than the ordinary politeness to a stranger in his own house demanded. The Parson's wife and daughter, however, who were present, did not seem to entertain any doubts or fears as to any danger to be apprehended, as they kept up a constant clatter with Miss Maggie about the outrageous treatment they were being subjected to.

To my own surprise afterward, as well as theirs at the time, I blurted, involuntarily, out some genuine expressions of sympathy for them, when Miss Brownlow detailed how the brute, Colonel Ledbetter, had, without ceremony of a request, rudely entered the sick man's chamber, demanding that "this 'assumed' sick man set an hour when he would be ready to leave town." This, at a time when Mr. Brownlow was not able to lift his head from the pillow of the bed, to which he was then confined. On this rather premature outbreak on my part, Miss Maggie took occasion to say to the family:

"I'm sure our friend is not a very bad Rebel; he is pretty homesick, already."

This latter observation seemed to rouse the Parson's interest in the visit, and turning to me, in a voice almost inaudible from weakness, he said:

"I should be glad to know what induced a Maryland boy to leave his home for this Secession cause."

Just what I replied must be left to the imagination. I don't remember myself, only that I went as far as I dared, and said in manner--if not in words--that I was going back home. Something was said, either by Miss Maggie or myself, as to the opinions we both quietly entertained that slavery was wrong and was at the bottom of it all, which seemed to stir the old man up in a way that astonished me. I don't remember his exact words, but if there is any one thing that Parson Brownlow could do better than another it was to pile up epithets.

"No," he said, raising his voice to a half-shriek; "it's not slavery. I am a slave-owner myself, and I am a Union man," and then continuing in a strain of abusive words, directed to the leaders, which would read something like this: "Any man who says I am a Black Republican or an Abolitionist is a liar and a scoundrel," getting more excited as he continued: "It's these God-forsaken, white-livered leaders, who are hell-deserving assassins."

His family seemed so accustomed to this sort of talk that they took but little note of what the Parson was saying; it scarcely had the effect of stopping their own flow of complaint about the guards.

Mrs. Brownlow said to her husband in a quiet way not to allow himself to become excited, on account of his weakness, and with a mild hint added that he might be overheard.

"I take back nothing I have ever said: they are corrupt, unprincipled villains; if they want satisfaction out of me for what I have said--and it has been no little--they can find me here any day of life, right where I have lived and preached for thirty years."

There was one remark which the old man made that afternoon which I have never forgotten. Mrs. Brownlow had been telling about the dirt the Rebel guards made in her hall, with their tobacco, as well as the noise incident to the changing of the guard every two hours, and their rude intrusion into the bedroom at all hours--to get warm, they said. The Parson in an undertone, as if exhausted by his previous outburst, said:

"They are worse than weeds in the garden, and exactly like fleas out in my hog-pen there;" stopping for breath, he kept on: "Why, they play cards on my front porch on Sunday, and I, a preacher, have to hear their oaths in my house, that would blister the lips of a sailor."

When I laughed at this a little, he growled out:

"Oh those cowardly assassins, who disarm women and children, and set bloodhounds after their fathers and grandfathers, who are hiding from their persecution in the Smoky mountains in this winter weather, have the meanness, without the courage, to do anything."

I was entertained that afternoon in a way that made such an impression on my mind that I shall never forget even a single striking point that occurred, and the reader is referred to the files of the Cincinnati papers of the winter of 1862 for an account of this interview, which, as a war correspondent, I reported at that time. Once the Parson got fairly started, the rest of the party became interested as well as amused listeners. When he would run down a little, something would be said that would seem to wind him up again, and he would go off like a clock without a pendulum or balance wheel. Something was said about the geographical or commercial effect of the proposed separation of the South from the North. I think I must have said something to lead up to this, as the Parson turning to me, said, while pointing his long, bony finger toward me:

"Young man, it can never be done."

And, by way of illustration, he continued in an impressive and intensely dramatic way:

"This Union will be dissolved only when the sun shines at midnight, or when water flows up stream."

Some one interrupted to say, laughingly:

"Why, the sun is shining at midnight at this moment in the other part of the world."

And his own daughter chimed in:

"Yes, and our teacher says the Mississippi does run up North in its tortuous course."

This created a little laugh at his expense. But, without noticing it or smiling himself--by the way, he was so dreadfully solemn looking--I doubt if he ever smiled--he got back on them by saying:

"Well, it will happen only when Democrats lose their inclination to steal."

After the laugh over this had subsided, he became eloquent as well as emphatic:

"And that will be when the damned spirits in hell swap for heaven with the angels, and play cards for mean whisky."

That's exactly the sort of a man Parson Brownlow was to talk; and we all know that he acted out his words to the bitter end. Then, by way of personal application, the parson said:

"I am not only a Tennessee Union man of the Jackson and Andy Johnson stripe, but I'm a native of Virginia. My ancestors fought for the Union in the Revolutionary War, and their descendents have fought to preserve it in every war since. This country is as loyal as any State in the North."

Mr. Brownlow's astonishing way of putting things was impressed on my mind, by his apt way of illustrating the dependence of the South upon the North, in his argument to show that disunion was not practicable.

"Why," he said, "we are indebted to the North for everything." While he was speaking he held a pocket-knife in his hand; holding it up he said:

"This knife comes from the North; the hats and clothes we wear, the shoes on our feet, every piece of furniture in this room," and, pointing to an adjoining room, where one of the ladies was quietly engaged in preparing the tea-table for our entertainment, "the ware on that table, out there; and the farmer gets all the tools North to work the farm that supplies the food we eat." Then with an expression of disgust: "Even the spades that dig our graves, and the coffins we are buried in, come from the North."

Here Miss Maggie felt impelled to speak a word in defense of her native South, observing:

"But, Mr. Brownlow, they haven't any better minds or people in the North; it's only their educational facilities that give them this advantage."

This gave me an opportunity to say that "the North didn't have any clearer heads than Mr. Brownlow's, nor any sweeter ladies than I had seen in Tennessee."

The Parson didn't even smile at this attempt at flattery, but kept on in the same strain, reciting some of his experiences while in the prison at Knoxville, only one or two of which I can recite.

That which made the greatest impression on my mind was the interview of a young girl with her aged father the morning of the day set for his execution, as one of the bridge-burning conspirators. The Parson's manner was at all times serious, but his story of the heart-breaking farewell of the daughter to an aged father, and its effect upon the one hundred other suspects who were confined with him, and who were obliged to witness the scene, is beyond the powers of my pen to describe.

The one redeeming feature of it was--the rough-talking Parson, acting in the character of a minister, endeavored to soothe the heart-broken daughter as he could in the most comforting words for an hour, alternately praying and talking, amid the sobs of the hardy mountaineers who were witnesses to it all.

The Parson said it occurred to him, as a matter of policy, in order to separate them, and not with any hope of success, he suggested sending a message to Jeff Davis in the name of the daughter, begging a pardon for her aged father--her only dependence in the world. The execution was to occur at 4 P. M., and he had purposely delayed mentioning this last hope that she might have all the time that was possible of the last hours with her father. It was 2 P. M. when he wrote with his pencil, on a leaf torn from his note book, a brief dispatch addressed to Jeff Davis, craving his mercy and a pardon for her old father. The girl herself took it to the telegraph office, which was in the same square with the jail; the kind-hearted telegraphers interested themselves in her behalf, and rushed her message through to Richmond, not expecting a reply, as there was but an hour or so left; when, to the surprise and delight of every person, probably without an exception, a message was promptly returned by Mr. Davis commuting the sentence to imprisonment at Tuscaloosa during the war.

I am glad to be able to record this fact in favor of Mr. Davis. I believe it may also be set down to his credit that much of the persecution of Unionists, and the brutal punishment of the same, was without his knowledge. It has been said that if Mr. Davis has been consistent in anything more than another, it has been in his life-long devotion to his principle of State rights or local self-government. Yet one has to wonder how his relentless attitude toward the coerced Unionists of East Tennessee is to be explained.

In this way I was entertained by Mr. Brownlow, while his good wife and daughter were engaged in preparing an evening tea for us. When we were invited out to the table--I asked to be allowed to wash my hands, and was shown the toilet stand in the same room the Parson occupied. I picked up a brush to dress my hair a little--you know those pretty brown eyes of Miss Maggie were yet in the house, and I wanted to primp up while at the glass--the Parson looked over toward me, after indicating where I would find a comb, and said, without a smile:

"The combs come from the North, too, and now, since the war, there won't be a fine-tooth comb to be had in the South;" then in an undertone to me: "The Rebels are full of squatter sovereigns hunting for their rights in the territories."

We sat down to the tea-table without the Parson's company, he being obliged to remain in his room, partly on account of his parole, but principally because he was just recovering from a serious illness, it being necessary to guard against a relapse, which would come from taking cold.

He had done pretty much all the talking while we were in his company, and as we all knew he was in the habit of speaking right out in meeting without any regard to consequences, even before the war, and the fact of there being an armed guard at his own door, as well as the presence of my gray uniform alongside of his, did not at all prevent his ready "flow of language." I do not imagine that he would have talked so freely, and in such a harsh criticizing way, in my presence had I not encouraged him to believe that I was a disappointed Marylander, while Miss Maggie added to this impression by endorsing me as a homesick refugee.

At the tea-table the ladies of the family did most of the talking. I kept my mouth occupied devouring some hot biscuit and honey, and drinking coffee with real cream in it, out of dainty old-fashioned tea-cups, while my eyes feasted on the sweet face and brown eyes of Miss Maggie.

I had enough of the visit, and as soon as it could politely be done, we gave our host and hostess a pleasant "Good-by."

After this visit to the Brownlow's, where I had been permitted to witness, in one case, the effects of the dastardly treatment by a government of Rebels, who were advertising to the world that "they were contending only for their rights against the tyranny of the Lincoln Government," and heard from the lips of one who seemed to be a dying Unionist martyr, it may be imagined that I was in no frame of mind to dally any longer in the Rebel camps.

I wanted to go home--I wanted to go badly--and I determined before I left the Parson's house that evening that I should--unknown to him at the time--advise the authorities at Washington, and give to the Northern press a careful account of my interview with him. I did it, too, through the Cincinnati papers a few days subsequent to the interview as stated.

I had gathered so much information since leaving Richmond about the Union hopes and sufferings, and I felt so great a sympathy for them, that I was, to use a vulgar term, "slopping over." There was now no chance to communicate with the North by mail from Tennessee--that I had yet got on to--as there had been in Richmond, and beside I was so full of news that it couldn't be put on paper in the brief style which the simple cipher permitted me to use.

We spent the evening after the tea at the Parson's in the Craig family's parlor, in a way highly enjoyable to me. I felt like a boy who had been absent from home for months, and who was being entertained at a farewell party in his honor.

As I have said before, there were several ladies in the Craig family, all of whom were present that evening; in addition there was a Miss Rose Maynard, who was the daughter of the loyal Congressman from that district. Their residence was on one of the main streets of the town, and at the time of which I write the Hon. Mr. Maynard was exiled to Congress at Washington. I will state here that I met him on my return to Washington, a few days later, when I gave him the latest news of his family.

Among the gentlemen present was a Mr. Buchanan, who was a Confederate soldier then stationed at Knoxville. He was, I think, the son of a Buchanan who had been a Minister to the Netherlands, under the former Democratic Administration. I mention him here, on account of his having been more recently from Washington than myself. I was able to gather from his talk to the ladies, in a general way, that he had in some way been acting as a sort of a spy for the Rebels; at least he had been in communication with those who were so engaged, and it was through his boastful talk of his family connections that I secured one of the most important secrets of my mission.

I will do Mr. Buchanan the justice and credit to say that he was an accomplished young gentleman. He had been abroad with his parents, or perhaps it was an uncle, and being raised, as it were, in the diplomatic world, he was, of course, able to conduct himself in a becoming way in the society of ladies. Indeed, he seemed to completely eclipse me for that evening with these ladies, but I was so filled with homesickness just then that I did not care so very much about it. One of Mr. Buchanan's happy accomplishments was his ability to recite, in what we all felt to be a perfectly delightful way, Poe's and Byron's poetry. Somebody had learned of his talent in this direction, so we kept the young fellow "going" right along.

Only one of his recitations remain in my memory, that of "Annabel Lee"; indeed, and in truth, I may say now with him, that "The stars never rise, but I see the bright eyes" of Miss Maggie, who seemed to be so much infatuated with him.

The younger Miss Craig and Buchanan were of the same mind on the war question. My gray uniform talked for me, while Miss Maggie, to my great delight, amused the parlor full of company with a ludicrous account of the battle of Mill Spring, or Fishing Creek, given her and her friend, by the Rebel troops from that section, who had participated in it.

It will be remembered that this little fight was one of the first, if not the very first, Union victory in the West. Zollicoffer was killed, and the Rebels retreated in the very worst disorder as far to the rear as Knoxville, Tennessee, over a hundred miles from the battlefield.

Miss Maggie told the story in her delightful way, appealing, as she went along, to her Rebel sister and others who were opposed to her side for confirmation as eye-witnesses to the ludicrous appearance of the Rebel soldiers as they rode back to town on mules--in their dirty, ragged clothes, many of them hatless, and sometimes two or three on one old mule.

To make it more interesting, she related, as a preliminary, how the gallant Secessionists had marched out of town but a few days before with a whoop and a hurrah, she declaring: "She felt sure those men would go straight through to Boston, and bring Lincoln back as they returned via Washington." The father, who had been quietly sitting back in the corner, enjoying Maggie's fun at her sister's and Mr. Buchanan's expense, broke his silence to add drily:

"Mr. Brownlow says, when they saw the Stars and Stripes and looked into the muzzles of the Union guns, they started to run, and didn't stop 'till they got to the other side of sundown."

If there are any readers of the Western armies who participated in Mill Spring or Fishing Creek, I can assure them that their little victory that day was a great God-send to thousands of the noblest-hearted Unionists of East Tennessee, who, from their hiding-places in the rocks and crevices of the mountains, saw the boastful Rebels run like wild sheep a hundred miles without stopping.

There was a piano in the parlor, as well as three or four persons who were able to spank it right well, so, between the recitations of our poet and the droll stories by Miss Maggie about the Rebels run back to town, we enjoyed a pleasant evening together, which will long be remembered by me as one of the many agreeable nights of my varied war experience.

One little story related by Mr. Craig, later in the evening, served to throw a mantle of caution about me, else I might have been tempted, under the jolly feeling existing among the company, and the influence in my own mind, as it was to be my last night, to make some "Union confessions" to Miss Maggie in confidence. Mr. Craig said in his slow, quiet way:

"There was a funny affair happened up-town to-day. You know there has been a daily prayer-meeting for some time which has been conducted here by the several ministers of the different churches, alternately. They have all along a little sign printed on card-board tacked against the wall, reading 'Union prayer-meeting; all are welcome.' Well," he continued, with a sly laugh: "There was a Georgia regiment came in here to-day from Pensacola, and a lot of them got too much whisky aboard, and seeing this sign, Union prayer-meeting house, and probably having heard of the Unionists of East Tennessee, served to raise their bad blood at once, and for a while came near causing a small riot, until the matter was explained.

"Some who were too drunk or ignorant to be made to see that the word 'Union' was not always to be considered offensive to a Southern man, would not be satisfied until the card was removed."

This little play of the Georgia regiment on the word "Union," which serves to show the sentiment and feeling then, afforded this company some amusement, but to me, the one word "Pensacola" was far more significant than any other that Mr. Craig had spoken.

There was then a regiment in town from Pensacola. That town, nor any other, was big enough to hold me, at the same time, with anybody that had been to Pensacola. So that here was another inducement for me to get away toward home.

After leaving Richmond and the Texans in the lurch as to my whereabouts and destination, I had felt that in the mountains of East Tennessee I would be at least secure from any possible re-union with any former Pensacola or Fort Pickens associates, but it seemed as if this Florida experience, like Hamlet's ghost, would not down.

When we came away from Richmond so hurriedly, it will be remembered that Lieutenant Claiborne with a portion of our Battery had been left in Camp Lee. If I remember aright, they were either to recruit or perhaps they were to await the arrival of some English cannon which were expected via the blockade, and in that case it was probably the intention to order us back there, to be sent as a solid Battery to Johnston's army in Virginia.

I was the least bit apprehensive, too, after I had been away some days, and had leisure to think over the matter more carefully, that Claiborne might in some way run across the Doctor through their mutual admiration of Capitola.

As I was "only a boy," as Capitola had so heartlessly said, I had been obliged to sorrowfully leave the Doctor and the Lieutenant to fight over Capitola among themselves, never thinking or caring much at the time whether I should become mixed up any further or not.

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Chapter XXII

CRUELTY OF GENERAL LEDBETTER--ANOTHER NARROW ESCAPE--ORDERED TO CUMBERLAND GAP--A WEARISOME JOURNEY--ARRIVED AT THE GAP--THE STOLEN LETTER--ALONE IN THE DARKNESS--THE NORTH STAR--DAY DAWN.

Most of the time in Knoxville I was sick and confined to the house, under the kind care of Mrs. Craig's family. Our company of Maryland Artillery, after a time, had been ordered away to Cumberland Gap, where they were to manage, if necessary, one or two old iron cannon that had been secured somewhere for them. Part of the refugees were left at Knoxville as part of the guard at Parson Brownlow's house. For this duty those were selected who had been sick, or who were thought to be "inefficient" for active field duty. I was among the number so detailed, because I certainly was the most "inefficient" Rebel soldier you ever saw or read about.

It will be remembered that in the opening chapter, while I was in Washington before the war began, I was accidentally, or, perhaps, providentially, introduced to Senator Andy Johnson through one of Senator Wigfall's Comanche Indian breaks in the Senate.

I flatter myself that the evidence I gave then--before Mr. Lincoln was inaugurated--shows that the great conspiracy was going on while the conspirators themselves were yet in the service of the Government, and under oath to support the same--therefore it was a "conspiracy."

This acquaintance with Mr. Johnson was recalled one day while in East Tennessee.

Mr. Craig said something one day about some letters that Mr. Johnson was charged with having written to some Abolitionist in Boston, proposing, or, in some way that I do not exactly recall, admitting that, for a certain large sum of money, he (Johnson) would use his influence in favor of the Union.

If Mr. Craig had any opinion as to the truth or falsity of the matter, he was careful not to let me learn it.

At the first opportunity, in order to get an opinion from a man who was not at all slow in furnishing that cheap article, in season and out of season, I interviewed Mr. Brownlow about the Johnson bribery to bring him out.

It brought the Parson out, and for a moment or two the air was thick with such elegant epithets as, "Hell-deserving scoundrels, white-livered villains," etc.

"I've not been on speaking terms with Johnson for thirty years, but I know it's a lie."

He was cautioned by his wife not to give expression to his views so freely. When I reminded them that the matter was public talk, and even printed throughout the South, the old fellow broke out in a new place:

"Oh yes, I know the Postmaster at Knoxville delivered the letters addressed to Johnson to a certain party here who is known to be in the employ of Wigfall of Texas."

That was enough for me. I was prepared to believe that Wigfall and his crowd would stoop to forgery, or anything else, to do a Southern Union man an injury. Wigfall was especially vindictive towards Johnson, as will be remembered.

If Brownlow had not been talking in the same strain to everybody about his Union sentiments, even while he was a prisoner, I should have felt from his free, outspoken manner toward me, every time I met him, that, by some instinct, he knew of my true character as a Union Spy who was about to return North, and would carry his messages home. I have often thought that Mr. Brownlow did divine my true character.

In this forged letter matter, if I am not greatly mistaken, Mr. Brownlow connected one of the present Senators from Tennessee, who was then Governor of the State. The Parson, in his odd way, had a name for everybody: Governor Isham Harris, was Eye-Sham Harris. Everytime I have looked at Senator Harris since he has been in Washington, and I have seen him almost daily, I have had this queer expression brought to my mind.

Rebel troops were being concentrated at Knoxville by railroad, to be marched thence to Cumberland and other gaps in the mountains. Something was up. Those who were on the Kentucky side about this time will know more about what caused the commotion than I who was on the inside and could only "guess," as the Yankees say.

The General in command of the forces in East Tennessee at the time was E. Kirby Smith. He was, I believe, a distant relative of mine.

Our Brigadier, and immediate commander, was General Ledbetter, a native of Maine, one of the meanest, most tyrannical and brutal men I have ever heard of, in either the Rebel or the Union Armies, or any place else. He had been an officer in the Regular Army before the War; and, as Parson Brownlow put it, "he had married a lot of niggers in the South." The Parson made this observation in the presence of his wife and the lady visitors who had accompanied me to the house one afternoon; though I did not exactly understand the drift of the expression at the time, I refrained from pressing the conversation just then. I learned afterward that he simply meant that Captain Ledbetter had married an Alabama lady, who owned sixteen slaves.

This General Ledbetter, from the State of Maine, was the willing tool selected by the Rebel officials to punish and abuse the Unionists--very much as Wirz was permitted to do at Andersonville. If I write harshly of this officer it will be accepted as an excuse from me to explain that I saw him do a great many mean acts, but that which turned my stomach worst were his roughly-spoken words to an old Unionist bridge-burner, a man with bushy, grey hair, who was at the time shrinking and cowering in a corner, looking at me with his frightened eyes like a crazy man at bay. His distress was being caused by the dreadful shrieks of his son, at that moment on the scaffold, to which the old father was led in a few moments.

"Get up here, you damned old traitor," while he deliberately tied the rope around the trembling old man's neck.

It was a horrible, horrible sight--one that I shall never cease to remember. I wish it were possible for me to efface it from my memory.

After the delightful evening at the Craig's, part of which I have tried to describe here, because there was a short, sweet interview at the garden gate after most of the guests had retired, in which the readers are not at all interested, I went to bed, determined in my own mind that in the morning I should make the final break for home. I do not remember now whether I dreamed of the girl I was to leave behind me there, or that my visions were of "Home, sweet home." Of course, it was cruel to be obliged to tear myself away from them so ruthlessly, just when it was becoming interesting, but I consoled myself with the reflection that I had survived these heart-troubles before--several times.

In the first place I had deliberately separated from my really and truly girl at my own home, when I joined Patterson's army in Pennsylvania, but I had succeeded in finding another, in dark-eyed Capitola, at Richmond, who in turn had been almost forgotten, in the new-found treasure at Knoxville, from whom I was now to be estranged by the fortunes of war--perhaps forever. It was now time to return to the first love again; and that's the way it was "evolved" with me right along. I always managed to have a girl, to keep me from attending to business, and to get me into trouble, whether I was in the Rebel or Union armies, or lines.

I was being "recuperated" so pleasantly, that I enjoyed playing off sick after I felt strong and active enough to have undertaken to walk right through Tennessee and Kentucky to my home.

The greater part of our company being at Cumberland Gap, Captain Latrobe was somewhere near Knoxville with General Ledbetter. I can not definitely recall exactly how it was--only that in order to reach him, to report for duty, it was necessary for me to go out of town some distance, where I found him in a camp at Ledbetter's headquarters.

I was a little out of favor with the Captain about this time. His greeting was not calculated to make me feel exactly comfortable.

"You are never on hand when wanted, but eternally scouting around some private houses, sick."

When I told him that I was now ready and anxious to join the company at the Gap, he took my breath away by saying:

"You will be no use there."

Then, as if remembering something that he had forgotten, he put his hand in his pocket, drawing out a package of letters, and as he fumbled them over, said:

"Lieutenant Claiborne writes me something hereabout wanting you to go back to Richmond."

Luckily for me, he wasn't able to put his hand on the right letter at that moment, which gave me a little time to gather myself up, which I did with an ease that astonished myself afterward when I had a chance to laugh in my sleeve, as I thought to myself how perfectly natural it was becoming for me to tell a lie on so short notice. I said at once in reply, as if by inspiration:

"Oh, Captain, that's probably those fellows I owe some money to, who want to get me into trouble."

He seemed to be satisfied with this explanation, and to my great relief, he put away the letters.

Just what the letters from Richmond had to say about me I am unable to say, because I did not press the inquiry at that time. I left the Captain soon after the conversation (some twenty-five years ago) and have not had the pleasure of meeting him since. I had very decided impressions on the subject at that time, however, which were to the startling effect that some of those Texas fellows, whom I had run against in their camp near Richmond, not satisfied with my bluff reception of their overtures, had been hunting me up at our old camp. Either that, or Lieutenant Claiborne had met with the Texas Doctor at Capitola's, where my double character would most likely have been discussed among them. In this one particular I should have preferred that Capitola had so far forgotten me as not to have mentioned my name again.

You may imagine how eager I was for the opportunity to change the subject with the Captain, which seemed to present itself with my remark to him. He replied in what was intended to be rather a severe lecture on what he termed my "fast and loose" way of carrying things on. I took his medicine quite meekly, and talked back only in a tone of sorrow and humiliation, taking good care to get in all sorts of rash promises to do better service for Maryland and the Confederacy, if he would only give me a chance by allowing me to go to the front.

He was disposed to be skeptical, and I write down here Captain Latrobe's exact words, spoken to me that morning in answer to my earnest appeal to be permitted to join the company at the Gap:

"Well, Wilmore, you are no use here, and I don't believe you will be up there, but I'll see what I can do with you."

He turned to leave, directing that I should "hold on here a while," as he limped off toward General Ledbetter's headquarters. I felt sure that he had gone there to consult with his superior officer about some disposition of myself; and I strongly suspected that the hinted-at requisition for me from Richmond had come through the military channels.

Perhaps the reader may be able to imagine my thoughts and fears, or share my feelings for the few moments that I sat on the edge of the porch of the old log house that morning, waiting for the verdict, as it were. I rather incline to the belief though, that it is only those who have been under a sentence of death, or who are awaiting the result of a last appeal for a pardon, who will be competent to sympathize with me, or one who has been in such a plight.

I was a long way from home, all alone--in a strange, I might say, a foreign land--among enemies; at liberty, but really with a rope around my neck; a single misstep, or word, a chance recognition, was all that was needed to spring the trap, and my career was ended ingloriously right there.

I was filled, too, on this bright and beautiful morning with the bright hope and prospect of soon getting home; in fact, I was starting out homeward bound at this time; my reaching there depended in one sense upon the will of this Captain, who could have put me in arrest and confinement and, at least, have delayed my chances, or he could give me the orders, that would admit of my easy escape.

The moments seemed like hours until the Captain made his appearance at the log-cabin door, where he stood for a few moments talking to an officer on General Ledbetter's staff. I felt sure that I was the subject of their conversation, but like most persons who feel this way when their consciences trouble them, I was mistaken.

Coming up to me, the Captain said, in a cheerful tone, as compared with the first remark to me:

"Corporal, could you find the Gap, if we--" so eager and thankful was I, I abruptly interrupted him to say: "Oh yes, I can easily do that."

"Well, it's forty miles from here, over a most God-forsaken mountain path."

I replied that I was used to the mountains and would easily find the place.

"We want to send some papers up there for signatures. I am here at headquarters to-day to get our Muster Roll fixed up, and find that I have to send them back again. We were going to get a couple of the natives to do the traveling, but, if you think you can get there, we will get you a horse and start you off right away."

The Captain's companion, the staff officer, seemed to be satisfied with my ability to undertake the journey, while the Captain himself was rather pleased to see me show some enthusiasm, or a disposition to "do something," as he put it.

He didn't understand the motive at the time, but I reckon he appreciated the feeling a little later on.

So it was arranged, to my great delight, that I should start at once, as the roll of papers had been waiting for a chance messenger. The staff officer went to see some one in the rear about a horse. I was invited to follow them into the stable. A reliable old mountain climber was pointed out as the best thing for the trip. The details of the mount was left to the stable boss and myself.

He told me she was used as a pack horse, for the staff officers: admitted that she might be old, but insisted that the climber was reliable.

I wasn't very particular--anything for a horse, a kingdom, or two kingdoms, so it would "tote" me up the mountain. I would have saddled up right away, but the old farmer insisted on feeding, while we hunted around for a saddle and other tools. A bag was filled with oats, a haversack stuffed with one day's rations for me, and I was ready to charge on the Yankees. Indeed, the old nag was choked off on her feed, so eager was I to get away. I got aboard at the stable door, found the old saddle-stirrups a mile too long for my short legs, and while the old fellow adjusted them, he laughingly said:

"Why, you go on jist like a boy."

I was a boy, and I was going home; but I was old enough to prevent older heads from finding out just how old I was.

I rode around to the front, dismounted gayly, and reported to the Captain that I was ready. Then began another trouble. I received more "orders" and "directions" in the next half hour than my wild head could contain, which resulted in my going off at last without explicit directions as to the route I was to take.

The Captain gave me some letters for Lieutenant Elkton, who was in command of our detachment at the Gap, which he said I was to deliver personally. I assented cheerfully to all the instructions, but when I had gotten off some time, and had cooled down a little, and had time to reflect, I concluded that I had better not be in a hurry to deliver that letter to our commanding officer. I "preserved" it carefully, however, so that it will be made public here for the first time. In addition to the numerous specifications that may be charged against me, I added that of robbing the Confederate mail.

As I look back over this mountain path, as it appeared to me then and remains in my memory, I wonder how it is that I ever got through with the journey alone so easily and safely.

I am not going to attempt a description of the wonderful mountain scenery of East Tennessee. That has been done so well and so often that any who may read this will have seen the well-written accounts which appear in the magazines every now and then, or, perhaps, more elaborately done in numerous war stories, as well as in the later writings of Charles Egbert Craddock and Frances Hodgson Burnett. Besides, every man of the Western armies has hoofed it over the same old road I traveled that day, carrying with him a goodly assortment of family groceries and "forty rounds," so that the impression on their minds will last as long as life remains, being as indelibly fixed as the everlasting hills themselves.

I can see nothing but the great mountains, on each side of an awfully rocky road, that seemed to me then to have been simply the dried-out beds of some streams that had refused to run to supply the Rebels with water. On every side of me, as I traveled along over these mountain roads, was the dense growth of interminable laurel thickets.

The country is, of course, somewhat diversified in mountain and plain, but the general impression left with me is, that it was so much more mountain than plain that there was hardly enough plain for a wagon-road.

After I had gotten some distance away, and was driving ahead as fast as the old horse would navigate over the rocky road, houses and farms began to grow smaller and beautifully less each mile. Every now and then we would plunge into a clearing, and find somewhere in a field of stumps a house--one of the small farmhouses where the roofs extend down and out over the front far enough to make a covering for a porch. On this porch one could almost always see some pumpkins rolled up in a corner, a saddle would be astride of the rough porch railing, a few dried provisions hung in the roof rafters overhead; one could always expect to find the lady of the house standing in the front door as he passed, and she was generally broad enough to fill the narrow space, so that only one or two heads would have room to peep out beside her, like young chickens under the old hen's wings. I generally hunted the well at almost every house we came to, when I took great cooling drinks of water from a gourd dipper.

These were the houses of the East Tennessee mountaineers. To describe one will answer for all. At the time of my travel among them, most of the men folks were away from home, either hiding among the rocks and gorges of the mountains from their persecutors, or, perhaps, having crossed the mountain, where they joined the Union Army, hoping soon to return to their homes as soldiers of the Government. There were six of these refugee Tennessee regiments as early as 1861-'62 in this part of the State, composed entirely of genuine, bona fide, Unionist refugees. I would like to record a comparison here with the refugees from Maryland in the Confederate Army at this time, both as to number and character.

I had left headquarters so late in the day that it was too much for me to make the Gap the same night with that horse, over these roads. When I started out, though, I intended to do this or burst; but on toward evening, after several hours of rough riding, I began to find the road getting so blind, and the houses were becoming so scarce, that I feared getting lost in the mountain if night should overtake me beyond the settlement.

So, early in the evening, when I reached the ford or crossing of a stream, the name of which I cannot now recall, I pulled up in front of a large house--for that country--and asked for a night's shelter. My impression is that this was a sort of stopping place or the last relay house on the southern side of the Gap. I found accommodation for both man and beast, and enjoyed a pleasant evening with the two old people on their front porch. I took it for granted that they were Unionists, though they had little to say on that subject, but they both were so well pleased with my way of talking, and of the encouraging news for a Rebel soldier to bring, that I think the old woman exerted herself to make the biscuit extra light, as she put enough salaratus in them to color the whole batch of them with yellow spots.

I was put to sleep in an attic room, and very early the next morning I was awake and dressed for the last ride. The old man had taken good care of the old horse during the night, feeding her on fodder, I reckon. When I got out from breakfast I found her tied to a tree down by the water. I mounted gayly. The old fellow gave me explicit directions as to the road to the Gap, which, he said, was in sight from the top of the hills. I bade him "Good-by," promising to pay the bill on my return. I hadn't a cent of money--besides, it was customary for the soldiers to live off the Unionists--so the old man was not much disappointed at not getting a fee, but I shall feel as if I owe them a dollar with interest for twenty-five years.

I believe I rather rushed the old hoss for awhile that morning, because I was feeling so good over the prospect of getting away at last.

Sure enough, I could see the Gap through a break in the trees and brush from the next hill-top, as the old man had said. I was surprised because it was so close to me, and disappointed in its appearance, as I had expected, from all that I had heard and read of Cumberland Gap, to find a great gorge breaking abruptly through the mountains.

On the southern, or more strictly speaking, the eastern side of the approach to Cumberland Gap, the ascent up the mountain is so gradual that one is disappointed until the summit or highest point is reached, from which a view is to be had down into Kentucky. It is then, only, that the grand beauty of the historic old place is realized. As I rode closer I met signs of military occupation--there were a lot of horses down the road at a black-smith shop waiting to be shod--a couple of soldiers in gray had them in charge; further on was a farmhouse, on the porch of which two officers in loose uniforms were sitting smoking pipes. I forged ahead, without being stopped by anybody, or stopping of my own accord until I was almost up to the very entrance to the Gap itself, when I met with a careless sort of challenge, given by a soldier, or officer without arms. It was only necessary to offer my papers and explain my business, to be told to go ahead, with directions as to where I should find our Battery.

I found our fellows were in a camp--or cabins--some little distance inside of the real Gap; on that side there seems to be two gaps, or, more plainly speaking, it seemed to me from a distance as a double gap, neither of which seemed very deep; indeed, the top of the mountain peaks on each side of the road that curved around between the two highest points did not strike me then as deserving the great name and celebrity they had obtained.

When I found the Lieutenant and delivered my papers to him, I received from the boys something of that greeting which is always accorded to a visitor who brings a pay roll or any papers or mail. Lanyard was there, the sailor recruit from Norfolk, as was also my old Richmond friend, the Colonel; we three had some hearty hand-shaking and cordial greetings. The Colonel, who was really the Sergeant, could not spare the time from some duty to accompany me, but Lanyard escorted me over to the real Gap, and it was there, as I stood on the crest of that great mountain top and looked down, down into the tree-tops of a great forest, far below and stretching away in the distance as far as I could see, that I realized what Cumberland Gap was. I could see threading along through the mass of trees that looked like mere bushes, so far down were they, a winding cord that resembled to my mind then a kite-string that had dropped down from above. This was the long, narrow and crooked road which led to the Union forces, which I knew were somewhere pretty close.

We were looking over into Kentucky and into the Union. I don't think I spoke much. I know that when such a scene is presented to me for the first time, I am struck dumb, as it were, and not able to rave over it, as I have so often heard others do, and have envied them.

To my first question, as to the location of the Yankees, Lanyard pointing to a clump of trees forming a little grove, seemingly isolated from the rest and a little to one side of the road, said:

"That's where they were in force when they made that attack on the Gap here."

Then we walked over to a stockade made of the trunks of saplings put on end in ditches, reaching up ten feet, behind which our Maryland boys were located. They had two guns then, and I was shown the marks of bullets of the Yankees, which were in the new wood of the stockade. Those who were on guard had a good deal to say of these wonderful guns of the Yankees that could imbed such a large long ball so deeply in the hard wood of the stockade. Our Battery had actually enjoyed the glory of putting a couple dozen of shots over into Kentucky somewhere. The bold refugees from Ireland imagined that they had done some wonderful execution by these few shots, but, upon investigation a few days later, I found that our troops were so close to the guns at the time, that the shots passed not only over them, but landed a long distance beyond, where they probably fell among the tree-tops and only scared the owls.

If this attack of our troops had been made after my report of the weak condition of the defenses of the Rebels, it might have resulted in an early capture of Cumberland Gap.

I lingered a long time in the Gap, at such points as admitted of my seeing out into Kentucky. I kept my eager longing eyes strained over that vista, hoping I might see the Stars and Stripes floating defiantly above the tree-tops. So eager was I to learn about the land of hope and of home, that lay stretched out before me, that I quickly gathered from these soldiers who were about me all the information they had about the land that lay beyond. My curiosity was pardonable at the time, because they supposed I was green and had never seen the Yankee country before. They were also quite anxious to tell all they knew, and more too. I gathered enough information in a very short time to satisfy me, first, that there were no Rebel pickets stationed beyond the Gap, though some predatory horsemen belonging to the artillery, and mounted on anything they could get, were in the habit of scouting out the roads occasionally for forage; secondly, the Yankees were in force within a few miles of me. I was told that their Cavalry frequently came almost to the foot of the mountain below.

This was enough. I should not allow another sun to set or rise on me before I had put myself under the protection of the old flag. I sat alone on a log, on the side of the hill, for a long time. I recalled that awfully hot July day that my companion and myself had sat out together on a log in like manner on a hill-side, very like this one, at Harper's Ferry, that other great hole in the mountains near my home, and how we both escaped inside the lines in the evening. My experiences in the Rebel lines during the months that followed passed before me rapidly. I was willing to risk a good deal to get away without the formality of a "Good-by" to the boys whom I had just met and left at the camp a little to the rear. I remarked to the sentry who was on guard nearest me:

"Is there any danger of being caught if I go down the hill to that house (pointing to one right below); I want to get something good to eat."

"Oh, no," he said, "our fellows go down there all the time."

He was a very obliging sentry. If he had orders at all, they were probably to allow no one to pass in; so, with a heart throbbing with suppressed excitement, I looked around. It was close on to evening, about supper time in the Rebel camps. Lanyard had returned to the performance of some duty. No one was near except the good-natured sentry. I leisurely stepped beyond "bounds," and, with a parting injunction to the soldier not to shoot when he saw me coming up, I stepped off down grade at a lively gait, and was soon winding down the horse-shoe curved road, which led me either to home or heaven, liberty or death.

Before reaching the foot of the winding road, that led on past the little house standing some distance below, I stopped a moment--only a moment--to plan. In those days my mind was soon made up, and, once I had decided a matter, I was always prepared to act upon it the same moment.

I concluded not to go to the house--that I must avoid leaving any trail by which I might be traced. To accomplish this, it was necessary that I leave the road and clamber up the steep side-hill embankment, which was full of brush and thickets; by so doing it would lead me into a wood to the side of the house.

It was probably another of my mistakes to have left the road and climbed that hill to get into the wood. I saw at the foot of the mountain below me the little old house by the roadside, which reminded me, both by its similarity in appearance and location of the old shanty near Manassas, where I had experienced so much annoying trouble from the quizzical and curious old bushwhacker proprietor, after my failure to get through the lines to Washington that night in August, 1861. It must have been about supper time when I had gotten pretty close to the house that day, because the curling, blueish smoke from a freshly-made wood fire was just then beginning to pour from the top of the big rough-stone and mud chimney, which was, as usual, hung on to the end of the cabin as a sort of annex.

The sentry I had so recently left at the top of the mountain had said that "our men" were in the habit of going down to the house, but, with the vision before me of former experience in such a mixed crowd in a shanty in Virginia, I quickly enough decided to apply some strategy and to flank the obstacle.

It's a simple matter to plan things and to apply strategy to the proposed movements. By the time I had climbed up that perpendicular cliff to the side of the road, through a thicket of last year's blackberry bushes, that were apparently growing out of a stone quarry, I was so done out that I had to sit down on the ground awhile to get my second wind. I had expended sufficient strength and nerve in making that climb to have carried me miles past the house, if I had only made the dash on the straight road.

From my seat on the rocks among the bushes, which was elevated considerably above the winding road down the mountain, I could see by the refracted sunset, in that clear atmosphere, a long way ahead of me. There seemed to be a thick, almost dense growth of timber, which was still below me, so that I looked only over the tops of the trees, as one views the chimney-tops of a city from a hill. I knew that somewhere in that general direction were the Union forces, which had recently attacked the Rebels at the Gap. I could only imagine that their outposts of cavalry were within--say a few miles at furthest.

The house that I was working so hard to avoid was yet, seemingly, as close as it had been before I had quit the road. But from my isolated position I could see only the top of it. The road had become lost under the tree-tops. Looking back, I could see nothing but the stockades at the top of the Gap, and these I could only locate in the fast gathering twilight, because I knew their exact position. There were no signs of life behind me--nor before me--except that the smoke kept curling straight upward from the chimney-top, until it formed in appearance a water-spout in the evening sky.

Up to that time, I might have safely returned to the Rebel camps, or, if I had been halted and arrested, it would not have been a difficult matter to have accounted for my being out of bounds at the time. But I had no intention of returning. I had started for home, and I was willing to risk everything to get there. I knew very well at that moment I had deliberately added to my peril, in a blind fearless sort of a way, that causes me a shudder as I write it down here to-day. If I had been caught, I would have been liable to summary execution, on the simple charge of deserting to the enemy, and, of course, any delay in the execution of this sentence must have resulted only in my character as a spy being discovered by the investigation which must follow. While thinking over these things, for the moments I sat on that mountain-side that evening, I recalled my similar experience while trying to get out of Beauregard's army in Virginia. I planned a plausible excuse to offer, in case I should accidentally run into anything hostile, when it suddenly occurred to me that the "official papers" about the strength of Beauregard's army in August, 1861, which I had gotten out of the telegraph office and had endeavored to smuggle through, were the cause of my greatest danger that time, and I had resolved then that I should never again be caught with any papers in my possession.

Following my thoughts with the movements of my hands into my pockets, to strip myself of papers, and be prepared for a dash for liberty, I hauled out the letter which the Captain had handed to me with specific instructions to deliver to the Lieutenant.

I destroyed it with a good deal of energy, after having first nervously opened and read it. By that one simple act, I had cut down the last bridge behind me. But you will not be surprised at my rash conduct, in thus robbing the Confederate mail, when I give you the substance of the letter, as nearly as I can recollect, and, by the way, a lifetime--a long and checkered lifetime--will not serve to efface from the memory the recollections of such days and nights as this in one's experience.

"HEADQUARTERS, NEAR KNOXVILLE. "LIEUTENANT COMMANDING "DETACHMENT MARYLAND ARTILLERY, Cumberland Gap:

"I send you by ---- the Muster Rolls, etc.

* * * * *

"It was the intention to go myself, but we have some prospect of a move in another direction, and I will wait here for further orders. We have borrowed this horse from the Staff, so that these papers can be fixed up and returned by ----, so they can be returned to Richmond.

* * * * *

"I have a letter from Richmond asking about the antecedents of ----, and the purpose of sending him up is, that you and the "Colonel" (the Sergeant), who brought him in, can answer.

"My information is, that he is wanted at Richmond for something. I'm waiting to hear through the Secretary of War."

"(Signed.)"

This was enough for me. I was not going back now; in fact, I'd rather be shot in trying to escape in Kentucky than to be deliberately hung in Tennessee. Those who have read my story will not censure me for opening that letter and neglecting to deliver it personally. Probably the rattle-snakes that crawled out of their holes among the rocks in that hill-side, when the weather became warmer, were astonished at the fragments of that official correspondence lying around there so loosely; may be the crumpled and torn papers became the basis of some nests. I only know that it was not delivered--not much.

This accounted for the Captain's curious questions the day I left him. I saw it all. I got up on my feet suddenly and buckled on my armor, as it were, and prepared to fly. It was getting a little late in the evening for a walk out alone in that country, but I had considerable of a motive behind me, and something of an inducement in front. Indeed, I felt, for the time being, that I could almost fly as a bird, so eager was I to get there. In starting off so suddenly, I neglected to properly take my bearings, so plunged down, recklessly, over the rocks and through the bushes, only knowing that I was going in the general direction which led me the furthest away from the Rebel camps that I had left up on top of the hill. I kept going, going blindly, I thought straight ahead, but making little progress. I wasn't the least bit tired then. While sitting down to read that letter I had rested wonderfully in a short time. It was only when I climbed down off the big hill or mountain, and had plunged, like a scared deer, into the dense growth of woods, that was at the foot of the mountain, that I was stopped, almost abruptly by the sudden appearance of darkness, which seemed to have dropped around me like a curtain. The curtain wasn't pinned with a star, because I couldn't see the evening star on the horizon on account of the trees, that were as thick here as the blackberry bushes had been up on top of the mountain.

I could only see the sky by looking straight up. I don't know that I looked up either; in fact, I don't believe I did. My recollection is that I was only concerned about where to put my feet, and, as a consequence, I was obliged to look down pretty much all the time pretty sharply. I should have appreciated just then, more than anything else, "A lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path."

It took me a little while to "get used to it," as they say when one plunges suddenly into darkness.

I have read very nice poetry about the "pathless groves," and the "pleasure in the pathless woods where none intrude," and all that sort or thing about the grandeur, and majesty, and silence of the woods at night, but I did not relish this dreadful silence and majesty that night, and, to tell the truth, I've never learned to appreciate the same grandeur since.

I like well enough to be in the woods at night, if I am one of a camp at any army corps headquarters, and 25,000 soldiers are looking out for the Rebels that may be prowling through the majestic woods, but, alone, I don't like it a bit.

I was alone in a deep, dark wood, somewhere between the outposts of the two armies, in the neighborhood of Cumberland Gap.

Everything around me had become obscured by the thick darkness, that one can almost feel on a dark night. I kept going, as I supposed, straight ahead, clambering over fallen logs, stretching out my hands before me as I stepped cautiously ahead to guard against a too sudden contact with the trunks of trees, stumbling over exposed roots, or becoming entangled in undergrowth.

This was the tiresome, dreadfully tiresome and discouraging path that I trod that night, for hour after hour, in my efforts to get home.

Almost exhausted, I began to grow impatient at not meeting with any encouraging outlook. I felt that I had had enough of this and was entitled to a change. I was sure that I had traveled over sufficient ground to have brought me, at least, a couple of miles nearer the Union lines. But I did not then take into consideration the fact that I had been going blindly, and had been merely stumbling and crawling around in a circle, as I have heard all persons do who become lost in the woods.

I realized with a shudder of horror that I was lost--lost, and lost forever--in that dark wood nearest the enemy; because I knew very well, from the observations of the country that I had made from the mountain top, that I should have come out on to the road that led on toward the Union line of pickets long before, if I had kept the course that I had so carefully laid out before dark. What did I do? I sat down on a big log and cried like a big baby; and that's what you would have done.

I wasn't so badly scared as I was demoralized, tired out, and discouraged.

After I had sat long enough to have somewhat recovered myself, I remembered all that I had ever read or heard of persons who were lost in the woods. I recalled that when only a boy, in my mountain home, I had connected myself voluntarily with a party of kind-hearted mountaineers who had joined in a body to search those mountain fastnesses for two little children of six and eight years old, who had strayed from their home a day or so previously, and were lost in the woods. My two days and nights' experience in that searching party became of great service to me now.

I first attempted to ascertain in the darkness, by feeling with my hands, which side of the trunks of the standing trees the moss was growing on. I knew that if I could establish for a certainty this fact, from several of the trees, I would, from this circumstance, have been able to locate the points of the compass, but it failed me, because of the utter darkness of the night and the absence of such a trifling thing as a match, with which to make a glimmer of light in that overpowering gloom. Matches are cheap enough, but, if I had had the money then, I would have been willing to have given as much cash for the little stick of wood, with a light on the end of it, as would have bought all the logs contained in that forest of lumber.

There was another sign that has never failed the lost and the distressed, from wherever looked up to, when the sky was not clouded--the North Star.

While a lad at school I had been taught how to find this, the only true and fixed star, and that night, while lost and in such dire distress in that dark woods, along side of the enemy, who had, by this time, surely learned of my escape, I looked up through scalding tears for the dipper and the pointer, and through the leafy branches of a high, old oak tree, the bright, twinkling, constant and true little North star was looking down brightly upon me as I sat there on the old log. What a bright, beautiful, hopeful little emblem it was to me then, and how often have I recalled this night, when I look up still and find it always the same friend.

I felt as much relief at the discovery of the North star as if I had found a lost trail in the sky. I felt that somehow I should be able, from this fact, to come out all right, though I was sorely puzzled to discover that, in appearance, the star seemed to be almost over the top of the mountain that I was so anxious to get away from. I did not then understand, as I since learned, that the range of mountains is nearly North and South.

"I passed a miserable night, So full of ugly sights, of ghastly thoughts, That, as I am a Christian, faithful man, I would not spend another such a night, Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days."

This quotation expresses in the familiar lines my experience more satisfactorily than I could attempt in a column a description of this one night of holy terror. It's bad enough to be lost under any circumstances, but at night, between two lines in a deep, dark forest, with the certainty of an ignominious death pursuing me as a phantom, almost mocking me through the screeching, hooting owls, whose diabolical laughter at my distress, in having failed to reach the goal that was in sight before dark were audible above the tree-tops.

As I have so often said before, there is only one way to properly understand the feelings under such conditions, and that is, "put yourself in his place." This can only be done, and that but feebly, in the imagination now, because there probably never will be just such another "dark path to glory" in that part of the country.

If I could only have kept moving in any direction, it would have been something of a relief, but I couldn't stir without stumbling over old roots of fallen trees. I didn't mind that so much, but everything was so awfully quiet and solemn that it seemed as if, every step I made, my feet would crash into the little twigs that made so much noise that I became startled every time, lest my every movement would be heard for miles distant.

So the only thing for me to do was to sit down on an old rotten log, that I had at last stumbled on, and wait for more light. The wild, scared thoughts and weird, horrible sounds that went through my head while I sat on that log in that dark woods that long, long night, can never be described. There were owls, bats, and other solemn birds of the night, sitting on the adjacent trees, hooting in chorus, and flying past a crazy-looking, wild boy of the woods, sitting like a knot on a log, wild-eyed, and with frantic gestures that would become a person with an attack of mania, who attempts blindly to protect and defend himself from imaginary enemies that would fly uncomfortably close.

I didn't see any big game. I didn't want to see any. I was not hunting; but I imagined there was a whole menagerie of such things around me. We hear a great deal about the silence and the majestic grandeur of the forest, but that's all poetry. There are more noises--and the most horrible noises--when alone, to be heard in a deep wood on a still, quiet night than ever I heard in the streets of any city at midnight.

It was these sounds that stirred the blood in my veins and kept the cold chills running down my back, so that I sat there and shook like one with an attack of ague.

When I could stand it no longer, and found it impossible to move in either direction, I climbed a tree. In getting up a pretty good-sized tree, I felt that I was out of the world and away from the danger of crawling and creeping things, though the owls became more curious and inquisitive than ever. That wood was full of owls. I was more afraid of them that night than of panthers--or Rebels either.

Once up in the tree, I was kept busily employed with the necessity for constantly changing my position. I couldn't get "fixed" comfortably on any limb or crotch in that old tree, and I verily believe that I "adapted myself" to every position that it afforded.

From my elevated position in the top branch of the tree I could look out through the tops of adjoining trees. It was before the season for the leaves to be thick in that section.

In one direction, I discovered what I had at first taken for a heavy cloud on the horizon were the outlines of the mountain. There were no signs, from my outlook, of the house and road I had seen last before coming into the woods. There was nothing whatever to serve as a guide, except the little North star. I could only wait for daylight, which must soon come. It seemed as if I had been ages in the woods. I looked eagerly for the breaking of the gray dawn, but I had been straining my eyes in the wrong direction, expecting in my dazed condition to see the first glimmer come from the western horizon. It was when I looked back of me, with a sigh of discouragement, that I first beheld the light of a coming dawn.

"Night's candles were burnt out, And jocund day stood tiptoe On the misty mountain top."

In a moment I became renewed with the old life and fire of those boyish days. Only stopping long enough to get a good view of the surrounding hills or mountains, I was able to discover that the Gap, from whence I came, was, apparently, closer than when I had first taken to the woods in the early twilight.

If I didn't know exactly where to go to find the Union pickets, I saw quite plainly where not to go, and knowing that I'd not make any mistake in getting further away from the Gap, I crawled hastily out of the tree, and in another moment was hopping along through the woods, which were yet quite dark down on the ground.

The uneasy night birds had flown. I heard a chicken crow, though it may have been a mile distant. I steered as clear of that signal of the proximity of a house as a sailor does of a fog-horn. As the light began to break through the tops of the trees, I was able to make better headway. The big mountain, that had cast a shadow over the world of woods all that night, loomed up grandly in the gray dawn; the Gap stood out as clearly defined in its profile as if it had been cut out by a chisel. There was nothing stirring anywhere but me; all the noises had apparently gone to sleep, and I, recognizing by former experience that the early morning is the safest time to travel in an enemy's lines, was making the best use I could of the "limited time at my disposal" before the Rebel officers would wake up and start their scouts out after me.

Without meeting with any obstructions, except the fallen logs and bushes, I must have traveled a mile, when I suddenly emerged from the woods on to a path, or mountain road, which led in the same direction I wished to go. I cautiously followed this until it led into another, a larger and apparently a more generally used wagon road, which I knew must be the main road leading up to the Gap from Kentucky. This, I knew, if followed up, would bring me into the Union lines. But it would also be likely to be used by any Rebel cavalrymen or scouts who might be sent out from the Gap.

Not having any means of defense with me, in case I should be confronted by an armed scout, I would simply have been at his mercy and been led back to the Gap, like a sheep with a rope about its neck. On this account, I was obliged to keep myself under cover of the woods, but, fearing to trust myself again in the deep woods too far, I scouted along the edge as near the road as I dared, keeping the open road in view all the time.

In this way I moved along slowly enough, watching eagerly up and down the road for some signs of a picket in blue in one direction and a scout in gray in the other.

Soldiers seemed to be awfully scarce out there that morning. I thought I'd never get out of the woods, or find relief from the long strain on my nerves, my legs, and my stomach. Not seeing anything in either direction for so long, I at last, to help myself along faster and with less difficulty, boldly came out to the road, and, with one good, long look behind me, started to walk ahead at a double-quick gait.

I had not gone far when, stopping to listen, as was my habit on such occasions, I was startled to hear what I supposed were horses' feet behind me. In a moment I was in the woods at the side of the road, where my long jumps made such a noise in the dry undergrowth that I had to stop and lie down.

I saw two gray coats coming up the road together, both of them on foot. Dropping myself to the ground as suddenly as if shot, just where I stood, I lay for a few seconds in a tremor of fright, the only sound audible being my heart wildly beating.

As the two men passed by me on the road, they were talking in a hurried way between themselves, and my presence was not discovered. I lifted my head far enough to look after them when they passed. I saw that they were none other than two men from our own Rebel company of Maryland Artillery; but, worst of all, one of the two was Lanyard, my old Richmond mate and chum; the other was a fat, young German, who had been a baker in Richmond.

The first thought in my mind was that these two fellows had been sent out on the road after me. Any person would have so surmised under like circumstances, and, like myself, would have been terror-stricken at the thought of being so close to them. It was not comforting, either, to know that they were now not only on my path, but they were ahead of me.

What to do under the suddenly-changed condition of things was only a momentary puzzle. I argued to myself that they could not go very far ahead on that road without running into the Union pickets, and that, if they were not captured by them, they would soon be coming back over that path. In either case, I should avoid the road, and endeavor once again to get through to the Union lines through the woods only, while the daylight lasted.

The thought that perhaps our forces had fallen back some distance, or that they might have wholly abandoned that part of the country, was not comforting. While I did not at first understand why Lanyard, of all others, should be the person detailed to intercept me, I began to imagine that his notion was that I had innocently strayed off and been lost, and that his purpose was only to aid me in a friendly way, in my return to the Rebel camp.

While walking through the wood, some such thoughts as I have tried to describe were crowding each other through my now frenzied brain, when the current was suddenly changed by hearing the wild barking of dogs ahead, in the direction my pursuers had taken on the road.

If there is one thing more than any other that a scout detests, while he is quietly pursuing his business, it's a barking dog.

Crawling carefully toward the sound, I could see some smoke above the trees, and a little beyond, on the opposite side of the road, a house. That was enough for me. I wanted some breakfast terribly just then, but I had no use for any more houses. What I wanted to see was a camp of soldiers with their tents and the Stars and Stripes floating over them.

It took a long time to flank that insignificant little old house, and made my legs very tired, but I succeeded in accomplishing the task at last, and had the satisfaction of looking back at it from a hill-top on the road, some distance inside, or beyond it.

I saw then what surprised me no little. In the road and all about the front of the house that I had passed, were quite a crowd of men and some horses tied to the fences alongside. The men seemed to be armed, and they wore blue clothes. I wasn't exactly sure of this from the distance. I remembered my mistake in Virginia in trusting too much to the blue clothes, and determined that this time I should be sure the wearer of the blue was a Union soldier and not a disguised Rebel.

I hoped sincerely and prayed that I had passed a Union outpost, and was at last within the United States. That they had not seen me was evident, from the indifferent and careless manner of the men. I judged, too, that the dogs had announced the approach of Lanyard and the baker to the house, and that they were both detained there.

I trudged ahead, hugging the road closely, meeting with no one in that lonely country, until so tired out and exhausted, after my night and now half of the day, that I was forced to sit down by the roadside to rest. I don't think I went to sleep, but must have dozed off, so completely exhausted had I become. I dreamed of my capture, the tramp of horses' feet, and heard the angry voices, which I had imagined belonged to a gang of Rebels, who were dragging my helpless body to a good place for a hanging.

In this nightmare in the broad daylight I was as helpless as if tied hand and foot, and could not utter a word, but blindly submitted to their brutal treatment, because too weak to resist. Aroused by the approaching sound of persons' voices, before I could get to my feet two horsemen in blue, armed with carbines, their sabers rattling, were almost up to me. In front of the two cavalrymen walking along, not like captured prisoners, but gayly laughing and talking with the mounted men, were my two comrades in arms--Lanyard and the baker.

I lay perfectly stunned. I dare not, I could not, move for an instant, when they quickly came almost abreast of me, and I jumped up so suddenly as to scare the nearest horse, so that it shied against its companion.

I spoke first, with the desperation of an outlaw challenging a helpless traveler: "Are you Union or Confederate?"

Before he could answer my question, which had been put as pointedly as if demanding money or life, Lanyard, with a shout of pleased surprise, came over to me, saying:

"Bully for us! We are all right, my old chum," and, turning to the cavalryman, who seemed to be getting ready for a combat or a conspiracy, he said:

"This is my old chum that I was telling about," then turning to me, for I was not yet fully satisfied in my own mind--"Why, in h--, didn't you tell me, so that we could come together?"

Then, after seeing that I was indeed O. K. at last, and, sure enough, under the guard of the troopers of the United States Army, I was ready for an Indian dance, even though I was so tired that my legs would scarcely carry me along.

The youngest of the troopers was a handsome boy of about nineteen or twenty, who informed me that he was a Kentuckian, and one of the company of Kentucky Cavalryman in the Union Army.

I hope this young chap and his companion are living yet somewhere in the beautiful blue-grass region of Kentucky, and that they may see this book, and will be kind enough to give me their present address.

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Chapter XXIII

RETURN HOME FROM CUMBERLAND GAP--MEETING WITH PARSON BROWNLOW ON HIS TRIP TO WASHINGTON.

I knew by that particular instinct, born of a soldier's daily experience of months among his own kind, that the two Cavalrymen I had seen coming up the road toward me were not from the army I had just left, or I should have kept quiet. Probably it was because I remembered, at the first glance of them, that I had not seen any such looking troopers in the Rebel Army, either about the Gap or in the interior country beyond, through which I had so recently traveled miles on horseback.

After some "mutual explanations and introductions," with a general hand-shaking all around, wherein it was laughingly agreed among them that my Jack Shepard manner of jumping out of a bush to demand satisfaction was a good joke--on my part--as they supposed it, I "fell in" with Lanyard and Baker, and we marched on ahead of the two cavalrymen toward the Union camp. Though I was tired and well-nigh exhausted, I walked ahead so briskly and stepped out so joyously that I was almost keeping the horses on a trot to keep up with us. This fact elicited from the older of the Kentucky cavalrymen an observation to his comrade that comprised about all the words that I remember to have heard him speak while in his company:

"My h--, don't that fellow travel!"

I am not prepared to say whether the renewed motive power was supplied through a fear of the Rebels coming after us in force, or a wild desire to get to a place where the blue soldiers were to be seen in greater numbers.

As we walked along together, Lanyard gave me a minute and funny account of the manner in which my disappearance was accounted for by my late companions in arms at the Gap.

"Well, by G--! I never thought you were a real Yankee. Why didn't you say something to me before? I was your best friend always, you sucker." Then, with a loud laugh and a slap on my tired back that nearly knocked me off my feet, he made a break for the little, fat Dutch baker.

"Say, Baker, ain't you just playing off as a Dutchman? Come now; let's hear you talk plain United States. You are in a free country."

The baker had suddenly dodged to the other side of the road when the hilarious Lanyard readied his ponderous claws toward him, and only grinned back, in broad Dutch, his reply to the suggestion. After a little more of this sort of sky-larking, as he called it, he cooled down sufficiently to talk in a more rational way, but kept on using, by way of emphasis, as Parson Brownlow would say, "Good mouth-filling oaths, that would blister a sailor's lips."

"Why, blank it--I only shipped with this gang of pirates until we could reach some civilized port where I could get ashore amongst white people."

Lanyard was opposed to "d----d niggers," and had somehow become full of the contrary notion, that the South was fighting to retain the colored population, and the North wished to free them, merely that they could be sent, as he said, "back to Africa, where they belong."

"You were not missed from camp last night until it was time to turn in; the duffer that was on watch up on the volcano back there reported to his partner, who took his place, that you had said you were sick, and had gone down to the house below to get a hot supper, so he told him not to shoot at you when you came in to roost.

"Our old chum, the Colonel, you know, he got excited because you didn't show up, so he had to turn us out to go down to the old house to fetch you in. I told him it was no use; that you would be too drunk to walk up the hill; but he made me take a mate out of our mess, and started us out after you. We couldn't get by the watchman. We told the blasted fool that we had to go down the hill to find you, but he kept fooling with his gun, and swore he'd sink us if we tried to run out of port.

"Pretty soon the racket and loud talk brought an officer and a whole gang of fellows on to us, and we were taken into the guard-house. We had to stay there half the night before any of our fellows came to help us out; then the Colonel and Elkton figured around and, by a lot of talking, they were allowed to take us back to our shanty to finish the rest of the night.

"Now I wanted to get out of that country and go to New York, terrible bad, but, by G--, I never would have thought of going down into that wood to find a path to New York. I was just going to wait until the Yankees came up to fight us, and then I was going right out to join them in spite of h--; but I wanted to see them first. Well, while we were in the guard-house that night, and our Lieutenant was talking with the other officer about getting us out, I heard them say something about your 'being in the Yankee camp before we started after you.' This set me thinking about your being there and me left in the Rebel guard-house.

"On the way back to our shanty, I asked the Lieutenant if he thought you were captured by the Yanks, and he said:

"Oh, no! he's got lost, and will turn up all right when it gets daylight."

"But the Lieutenant was in a damn bad humor about your going off, and kept talking to the Sergeant about it being "queer" that you should come up from Knoxville and go straight out into that country alone. The Colonel was satisfied that you were lost, but the Lieutenant said the officers up at the guard-house were sure you had gone straight to the Yankee Camp, as they were out on the road only a mile and you must have been among them before night.

"The Lieutenant talked to them as if it might be so, because you had been having a row with the Captain again, and it was hard to tell what you had been doing last. That is about the way they kept talking about you.

"I began to think, if the Yankees were only a mile off, that I would like to go and see them, and not wait for them to come up and see us. So that night, after we got back to our quarters, I told the Lieutenant I would start out at daybreak and hunt you up, my notion being that you had left for good and I wanted to join you. The duffer that was with me swore he would not go along with me down the hill, if the Yankees were only a mile off. At this the Dutchy wakened up from his sleep and bravely volunteered to go along with me." Then Lanyard with a contemptuous look, turned to Baker and said: "Say, Dutchy, you blasted rascal, you played me for a marine, didn't you?" But getting only another broad smile from Baker for a reply, he continued talking, much to the amusement of our Guard of Cavalrymen, his tongue and jaw keeping pace with our quick steps.

"Well, to make a long story short, I laid awake all the balance of the night in thinking it over. I got our old chum to fix up a plan with the officers to allow me to go out to hunt you up; and just as soon as I could bundle up a little, we made the break, and came straight down the road to that house. They told us you had not been there that night. After taking my bearings, we grabbed the anchor, set full sail, and ran out the road until these chaps hailed us back at the house there.

"Dutchy kept right along side of me; he wasn't a bit afraid of the Yankees, he said, and wanted to go ahead." Then with a look of assumed disgust at the baker for having so shrewdly deceived him by pretending bravery in meeting Yankees, while his intention all the time was simply to conceal his real motive, which had been to escape, his tongue ran on with an amusing soliloquy, and, partly addressing himself to the cavalryman about 'the deceitful, lying, treacherous marines he--the guileless, innocent sailor boy--had been compelled to associate with for so long a time against his inclination.'

This cavalry was part of an outpost who were stationed at this point on the road nearest the rebels, as is the usual custom; they were some miles in advance of the infantry or the headquarters, of the camp. We learned from our Guard that their principal duty consisted in receiving and escorting to headquarters the scores of Unionist refugees, who were constantly coming into their lines day and night, in an exhausted condition, through the passes of these mountains. Most of these Unionists were promptly enlisted into the Tennessee regiments, then in camp with the Union army. By this means was solved a difficult problem for the officers, as to their maintenance, when driven away from their homes. (The Government was supposed to guarantee protection to them in their homes.) Under this head, or in this classification, we were placed by the Union officer with whom we first came in contact.

Some time ago, in looking over a volume of the published War Records, by a mere accident I turned to a page referring to some operations about Cumberland Gap, and, because of its familiarity to me, I took the time to hunt up, as nearly as I could, some of the official records bearing on the time of my escape. On a certain page, which I could give herein, is an official report of the general officer in command of the Union forces, announcing the arrival of "three men" who had escaped from the Rebel army that date, and who had given him valuable information of the plans and the forces of the Rebels in his front.

As I have previously stated, I have no memory for dates, but my impression is that our information, at that time, was of service to General Grant, who was then operating in the West, in this, that I had satisfied the general officer, from my account of the location of the Rebel troops, their guns and earthworks in the Gap, that it could not be captured by assault, by any reasonable force in front. In the words of Longfellow, adapted to the occasion:

"Try not the Pass, the young man said."

And they didn't. The force that had been idly lying out there, where provisions and ammunition had to be hauled for miles upon miles over the miserable Kentucky roads, soon after changed their base, and were placed where they could do the most good.

It was late in the afternoon when we reached the camp of the Union forces. I was tired--very tired, and most awfully hungry, too, when we got in sight of a real camp of soldiers, which was, in those days, laid out in regular form according to the books, in rows upon rows of tents in the woods; a neat clean parade ground, from the center of which rose a tall staff, on the very pinnacle of which was flying--old glory--the Stars and Stripes.

There are moments in every soldier's life time that will never be effaced from the memory, and this was one that, in my heart to-day, is as bright and happy as it was twenty-five years ago. I can not describe my feelings; I will not attempt it. Those who have tried to read my experiences for the months preceding will understand, but only feebly, how heartfelt was my gratitude in that supreme moment of my life. It was as if I had escaped an ignoble death, but, generally, my heart was filled with unselfish pride and pleasure at seeing floating up there, above the army, the flag that for months upon months I had heard decried until sometimes I begun to think that there was no one to defend it but me, and I was all alone among enemies, and must grin and bear the daily abuse in silence. I don't believe I spoke a word to anybody for an hour.

Near the flag were a few large tents standing by themselves, which were pointed out to us as the headquarters, where we were to be conducted as soon as we had washed off some of the dirt and dust. In front of these headquarter tents were seated three officers comfortably smoking pipes and chatting together pleasantly.

We were transferred to an infantry guard, being still held as prisoners. After giving us plenty of time to put ourselves in as good shape as we could, and being kindly tendered all the aid they could give us, we were put between files of neatly uniformed soldiers. When I made some remark to one of them about going to unnecessary trouble about us, as we were only too glad to get there, and weren't going to leave them, he explained with a laugh, as he fixed his bayonet to the gun: "That's all right; we know that; but the 'old man' would kill us if we should march you fellows up there in anything but the regular military style."

So, after putting us in about the shape that the recruit occupies at his muster into the G. A. R., a sprightly young officer of the guard, with sash and sword, gave the order to forward, and we were marched across the parade ground toward headquarters.

As we passed almost under the flag, I looked up, and, without a thought that anyone would see me, I involuntarily took off my old rebel hat. Our appearance was, of course, attracting very general attention in the camp, and, I presume, some of them witnessed the humble salute to the old flag, which was the more marked as I wore the gray clothes of a rebel and a traitor to the flag.

To my surprise, the "old man," as the General was called, was quite an ordinary-looking little gentleman. It was General Carter, of East Tennessee. As I have since been advised, he had been a naval officer in the United States Naval Service for some years before the war.

The Guard, after properly presenting us, were dismissed; we were pleasantly invited to take seats on a log, and for an hour I did most of the talking, but that Union officer only gathered from me my East Tennessee experience, which was of immediate use to him; he was told nothing whatever of my former relations with Washington and the Secretary of War.

There was a young fellow on the staff of the General who exerted himself in a very pleasant, easy way to make us comfortable. To him I was particularly indebted for some personal favors, that I have never had an opportunity of repaying, except at this late date to publicly acknowledge my obligation.

There was not a dollar of any kind of money between the three of us, so we had need of friends then. In this camp I first saw a greenback, which was presented to me by this young officer.

After the General was satisfied that he had pumped us all dry of information, he gave the necessary orders for our entertainment.

We were taken in charge by a couple of jolly fellows of an Indiana regiment, one of whom had been a river man, and had some acquaintance with that section of the Ohio river, the headwaters of which I had started out from with Andy Johnson's train some months before. The "boys" gave us a hearty supper of coffee--real coffee.

It is sufficient to say here that the boys of that Indiana regiment were clever fellows; they treated us bang-up, as our fellows always did when a poor, hungry devil in gray strayed in to take supper with them.

There were one or two exceptions, as there always is in every company, who run around to do the scavenger work. I was tired--I believe I have said so once before--and, as soon as possible, after the grub had been swallowed, I hunted a place to stretch myself out for a rest. I felt safe enough, and knew then that, for the first night in months, I could lie down to sleep in perfect security, not dreading or fearing what the next day would bring forth.

One of those curs, that was always hanging around to make themselves noticed, seemed to have taken offense at what he supposed was an intentional slight or failure to recognize his importance; he was, I think, a First Sergeant of a company--one of those fellows who have a grievance against everybody because he wasn't the Colonel. I don't really remember what I could have said or done to have brought upon my defenseless head his vengeance; but it's my impression now that, in his positive, disagreeable way, he had been boastfully referring to the Rebel soldiers in their front as being of no consequence--you all know how some fools talk about the enemy. It's barely possible that I had resented his estimate of the ability of the Rebels I had just left. I had been among them a good while, and knew something of their character, and it was a weakness with me to attempt to defend them at such a time; but I reckon I was as big a fool as this fellow himself, and talked too much in an honest, candid way about the earnestness and patriotic zeal and enthusiasm, as well as the undoubted courage of the Rebel soldiers.

I reckon that I was so tired that I was cross-grained at the persistence of the fellow urging himself upon me. I was wakened from a sound sleep by a Corporal with an armed guard, who said he had orders to put me in the guard-house. Hardly realizing my position, in my dazed condition, I mechanically followed the Corporal out into the cool, night air, which had the effect of awakening me fully to the changed conditions in my circumstances.

It seemed so like a dream that I could scarcely realize that I was being escorted to a guard-house. The Corporal kindly intimated to me that there were fears that I would get away. I could get no further satisfaction from him or the guard, except that the matter would be explained in the morning.

The fact that a Sentinel stood near me with a loaded musket did not at all interfere with my slumber; it rather had the effect of inducing more sound sleep, as I felt a certain personal security from the Rebels as long as I was honored with a private protector of my own--while I slept. In the morning a good breakfast was sent me. Lanyard called, but was not permitted to speak to me, and walked off swearing to himself. After guard-mounting, I was conducted to the General's tent, where I met the young staff officer, who, in the most brotherly manner, said:

"Mr. ----, the General was disposed to give you special consideration, because it seems that he had been impressed by your manner and your voluntary salute to our colors yesterday, that you were a born loyalist; but he is informed by Captain ---- and some member of Company --, Indiana, that you were detected in giving expression to the most traitorous sentiments, and you declared your belief of the ultimate success of the Rebels, which, you know, is not the way you talked to us yesterday."

My manner and the expression of my face must have satisfied the young officer at once. Really, I was too much taken aback to speak for a moment, but, when my tongue did get loosened, it gave expression to such violent language that the young officer laughed heartily at my earnestness. I denied most positively the use of any such words, and demanded the authority. The officer simply said:

"Well! The General said you were nobody's fool, and I didn't think you would have talked that way in our camp;" then, turning to an orderly, he directed him to bring to headquarters a certain person, whose name I am sorry I am unable to give. It was the blatant First Sergeant who had forced himself upon me. When face to face with him, in the presence of the General and several other persons, I was able to so completely demolish his statements that his discomfiture was enjoyed by everybody around the camp. I was indignant, and I talked badly. I was apt to be that way then, and my tongue and gestures toward my vis-a-vis created so much amusement I was allowed to indulge myself to the fullest extent. It was a mistake of mine. The Sergeant went away humiliated and full of revengeful intent. I was released from arrest and joined Lanyard in the camp. The affair had created something of a breeze, as every soldier in camp had heard of the arrest. While in a tent, surrounded by a crowd of boys who were congratulating me, an officer with a drawn sword rushed into the crowd and in an instant put the point of his sword against my breast, with a wild oath, as he grabbed for my throat, declaring he would kill me if I did not retract every word I said to the General about his First Sergeant.

I have said that, in cases of sudden and dangerous emergency, I was always able to be cool, while I get terribly rattled in anticipation of imaginary danger. So it was that, in this case, I was the only cool one in the crowd. Looking straight in the Captain's eye, and wholly disregarding his sword, I said to him, calmly: "I am unarmed and a prisoner."

At this, one of the men present, though only an enlisted man, attempted to interfere in my behalf, which only seemed to further enrage the officer, who turned from me to glare at the common soldier.

In the mean time some one had run over to headquarters and told the General and staff that I had been killed by this officer. In a moment the young staff officer made his appearance on the scene, and my life was again saved. The explanation was, that the Indiana Captain was a brother-in-law of the First Sergeant whom I had discomfited. I was politely requested to accompany the young staff officer to the General's tent where the matter was explained.

I have seen military men awfully mad, but it was the first time I ever beheld a General get so angry that he turned as white as a dead man; why, he couldn't speak at all, but simply walked off; and those who had not seen his face would have been led to imagine that he was simply indifferent. I was invited to sit down near the headquarters' tent. In a very few moments--less than it takes to tell it here--that Indiana Captain's sword was taken from him, he was in arrest, in disgrace for having been guilty of one of the most cowardly unofficer-like acts that can be charged to a soldier--that of assaulting a defenseless prisoner.

That afternoon, the Colonel of the Indiana regiment spent a couple of hours with the General, in attempting to palliate the Captain's offense, but it was no use. I could not hear what they said, but could see that the little General kept shaking his head constantly in a savage negative, that indicated his feelings.

This affair created such a stir in the camp that it was thought best to send us away at once. So, that evening, all three of us were marched under the same style of guard with fixed bayonets to the camp of an Ohio regiment, located about a mile distant.

In due time we reached Lexington. Here the officer transferred us to the charge of the sick soldiers. It so happened that, just before reaching the town of Lexington, we had all stopped for a noon rest at a point near which was a fine, old-fashioned mansion house, belonging to a large farm. The house, as is the style of that country, was well supplied with verandas and porches. In the rear was quite a little village of whitewashed log-cabins, which I recognized as the negro quarters. The stone spring-house was in a little ravine convenient to the barn, where we all went to get a drink of cool water. While seated around on the big, flat stones, enjoying the cool, refreshing water, an old gentleman, tall and patriarchal-looking, walked toward us, and, in his courteous manner, introduced himself to the rough-looking crowd that had taken possession of his spring-house, as "the farmer who lived here," pointing back to his house, and politely asked if we required anything more to make us comfortable. For one, I felt abashed and uncomfortable, but Lanyard spoke up and suggested that: "We would like to try a little of the Kentucky whisky that we heard so much about."

"Certainly, certainly, sir;" and turning to a grinning colored "boy," who was quite a gray old rat, he directed him to "fetch the brown jug down."

This kindly reception of the sailor's suggestion served to make the old gentleman exceedingly popular with the whole crowd. The colored man was anxious to be agreeable also, and, with quite a frisky manner for one of his age, he soon trotted back with a big jug and two tin cups.

"Wait on the gentlemen," was the brief order. The old darky smiled all over when he saw the alacrity with which the boys crowded toward the jug. I had never allowed myself to drink, and when my turn came the old gentleman seemed to be offended at my declining it, as if it were the quality of the whisky that I was objecting to; he explained:

"You need not be afraid of that, my boy, it's pure; the rye was grown right over in that field, sir; I had it made myself, sir; it's for my own family use, sir."

To satisfy him I took hold of a tin cup and allowed the boy to pour out a spoonful or two, intending to fill it up with water.

"No use in that, sir; it don't need any water, sir."

I gulped it down like a dose of medicine, and put a tin cup full of water on top of it. It was the first time I had ever seen whisky drank from a tin, but I saw lots of it come from the tin canteens soon after.

The effect on Lanyard was to make him talkative and somewhat confidential with the genial old host. I didn't hear what was said, but when we had separated, or the jug had been emptied, Lanyard took me to one side and muttered in my ear, in a half-drunken way, in great confidence that: "I've told the old man that you and I were Confederate prisoners, and gave him a hint that we would be glad to get a lunch." Then grabbing me by the arm, I was dragged up to the house and made to sit down on the veranda with him. I wasn't drunk--that's a fact--I could see peeping through the window shades several pairs of bright eyes.

I realized at a glance that it was our gray clothes that was the attraction, and that the appearance of two real Confederates on that porch was creating something of a sensation among the lady occupants of that "Old Kentucky Home."

In order to gratify my vanity, and to see the ladies, as well as a desire to have some fun, I helped to keep up this delusion. Lanyard's object was something good to eat.

Lest there should be some misunderstanding on the part of our officer and his companions as to our motives, I quietly gave them the cue, and I admit now, with a sense of mortification, that we shamefully imposed ourselves on the kind people of that home as Confederates, and, through this means, we were so hospitably entertained that the officer in command was induced to prolong his camp in that grove all night.

Several of us were furnished with an elegant supper of chicken and corn cakes, while the officer and myself were agreeably entertained by the ladies in the parlor during the long evening.

There were, also, a couple of mules going back home on sick furlough. These were tied on behind the wagon that was in front of ours, being towed along in this way like a pair of solemn prisoners of war.

One of these mules was bigger than the other, but the little one had the larger head and longer ears of the two, which gave to it a peculiar, wise-looking expression of grave dignity. It was what would be called a roan. I remember that, in our joking way, we had lots of fun about its hide being about the color of the Rebel uniforms. I reckon our loud and coarse remarks about this mule must have hurt its feelings; at least, this is the only way in which I can account for its subsequent vindictive conduct toward me.

Those who have been in Kentucky--especially that part of Kentucky--will know something about the roads. At this season of the year they were simply awful--not so muddy, but just about as rough as big rocks, and the exposed roots of large trees could make them. The rains for ages back seemed to have washed out all the bottom of earth, and had left exposed on the surface a network or corduroy of roots, with the chinks filled in with stones. It wasn't pleasant riding in an army wagon over these roads, and we earned our passage by walking. There was not sufficient room on that road beside the wagon for a foot path, so we had to follow in the rear of the wagons. In a long procession of wagons, mules, and soldiers, sandwitched one behind the other, I was walking slowly, one afternoon, with my head down, thinking over the happy escapes from the many dangers through which I had been almost miraculously preserved, and no doubt dreaming of the anticipated joys of a welcome home, which was soon to be realized, when all of a sudden I felt a quick rush of wind and dust thrown like a gust into my face; at the same time the rim of my hat was barely touched by the heels of that roan mule. The fellow who was beside me cried out something about "looking out," and dragged me back into the heads of the team following.

This is not an attempt to be funny, but is set down here as a most remarkable intervention of Providence--or my good angel--for my safety. That mule kicked back over a clear space as long as himself, and had correctly directed his heels right into my face; had I been two inches closer, the blow would have been received full on my forehead and must have fractured my skull with its force.

When we got into the town, or City of Lexington, about noon, one day, we found the town full of people. It was, I think, court week; anyway, the prisoner game was played on some of the citizens here also, by Lanyard. In this way we were well cared for.

It was night when we reached Cincinnati, where we were ferried over the Ohio river and placed on Ohio soil. Here I was, at last, free of all restraint, and permitted to do as I pleased. Lanyard was still full of the genuine Kentucky bourbon, and that night was lost to me forever.

I usually hunted up in those days, on reaching a city, a telegraph office, that I might announce to my folks at home, in this spirited way, that I had again returned to the earth for a brief visit to them. It was always a surprise to them to hear from me, after one of these secret-service trips; they never knew exactly where I was, of course, and could not make any calculations as to what point on the earth my balloon would land me next. It will be remembered that I had come upon them suddenly, after being widely advertised as having been hung by both the Rebels and our own officers at Fort Pickens, some time previously, from New York. This time it was from Cincinnati.

Being one of the boys--that is, a telegrapher--I usually had free access to the operating-rooms of the offices, where I frequently met with some of the fraternity with whom I was well acquainted--by wire. You know it is a fact that there are old acquaintances and even intimate friends amongst telegraphers, who have never met personally; their only method of knowing each other is through the mysterious and magnetic pulse of the electric wave over the wire.

In the operating room of the Cincinnati office, up on a dingy fourth floor, I found the night manager, a gentleman whom I had known familiarly by wire, though I had never seen him before. Introducing myself, I was at once made at home, and felt as if I had met the first friend since my return. After giving him a brief account of myself, I was courteously put in instant communication with some of my old associates in the neighboring city, with whom I was personally acquainted, and who had, by the way, heard of my mysterious disappearance and subsequent adventures. For the time being, all other business was laid to one side on that telegraph circuit and the entire system was turned over to me.

Remember, if you please, that I had not heard a single word from home for over eight months. I did not, of course, know that all were well. I almost dreaded to hear first that some one dear to me had died during my long absence. I had sent some communications through the blockade from Richmond, but this had been some time before I left East Tennessee.

Of course, no replies to these could be received by me. Now, if the reader will put himself in my own, or my father's place, each at the end of a wire five hundred miles long, and try to imagine, if he can, the agony of suspense and fear that hung over me at that hour, he will realize, in part, my feelings. My nerves were at such a tension that, figuratively speaking, they were strung out as long as that wire, that reached over miles of mountain and plain to my Pennsylvania home. With my own hand trembling on the telegraph key I sent my own message, as follows:

"To father: I am here safe; are all well at home?"

While waiting for the answer, which I knew must come soon, the moments seemed hours of suspense, while I tried to entertain my friends who were about me with a brief sketch of my adventurers, one of the operators took from the wires and handed me the reply, which I had failed to catch with my own ear while engaged in the talk. He read aloud the exact words of a bona fide message:

"I had little hopes of ever seeing you again. Come straight home. Your uncle A---- is dead. All the rest well.--Father."

That was all. It was enough. All were well at home. The uncle who had died in my absence was the one relative I had last visited on the day I heard of the battle of Bull Run. I would like here to tender a tribute to my father, but I feel that I am not competent to do the subject justice.

He still lives, an old patriarch, and will read these notes and for the first time fully understand the entire story of his wayward boy's adventures. My father was the one true constant friend of my checkered career, and to him and his untiring interest in my behalf I owe not only the preservation of my life, but what little I have attained in this world. I can sincerely thank God, as Beecher says, "That I was born of parents who gave me a sound constitution and a noble example, and can never pay back what I got from my parents. If I were able to raise a monument of gold higher than heaven, it would be no expression of the debt of gratitude which I owe them, for that which they unceasingly gave by the heritage of their body and the heritage of their souls to me."

That night we reached Pittsburgh, which had been my business home for some years immediately preceding my war travels.

My father's home was not at that time in Pittsburgh but a little distance beyond.

Early next morning I was around town, and soon enough found plenty of my old chums. I was only in danger then of meeting too many people who were anxious to hear my story from my own lips. Luckily for me, perhaps, I was captured by Mr. William Moreland, an old associate, who was then the district attorney, and through his advice and management I was preserved from my friends, and urged not to talk too much until I had first reported to Washington.

It will be remembered that I had suffered previously by giving the New York papers an account of my Florida campaign in advance of my report to Washington; and, with a desire to profit by this experience, I refrained from giving away my story.

At my father's house, on the sunset side of the Allegheny Mountains close by Cresson Springs, I remained in comparative retirement but for a few days.

While I was at home, it so happened that Parson Brownlow was coming up through Ohio on his way to Washington, after his release or banishment from home. He was having quite extensive ovations at all the principal cities, delivering at each place one of his characteristic speeches. One day, rather unexpectedly to me, we were told that the Parson would pass our place on a certain train in a few hours. I determined to see him, and, if possible, get a speech for our townspeople while the train stopped. Quite a crowd had gathered about the platform by the time the train reached us. We discovered the Parson on the engine. The railroad officials, who were quite attentive to this class of travelers, usually tender their distinguished guests a seat on the engine, for a better view of the scenery as the train is whirled over the big mountain.

I climbed up on the engine as soon as the train stopped, followed by my father and several others. The Parson looked surprised, and I imagined for a moment that when he saw the familiar gray clothes making a break on him, followed by a crowd of eager persons so closely, that he recalled some of his former Knoxville experiences among the Rebels.

Mr. Brownlow had changed considerably since I had seen him, when he was wrapped up in his old shawl in his Knoxville parlor. He was dressed in a new suit of black broadcloth, and wore a high silk hat, gloves, etc., that gave him quite a clerical appearance.

Without speaking a word for a moment, so surprised was he, he simply reached his hand toward me with a blank stare of astonishment on his countenance. To my hearty, laughing greeting, he soon cordially replied, recognizing me as his interviewer with Miss Craig, and, but for the fact that the train stopped only a moment, we would have had a good speech from him.

When the train reached Altoona, twenty-five miles beyond, where the party were met by G. W. Childs and Mr. Stewart, as a committee of reception from the City of Philadelphia, and, in reply to their address of welcome, Mr. Brownlow pleasantly referred to "meeting one of his rebel guard up on the mountain," declaring that the Rebel ghost followed him, phantom-like, every place he went, night and day, always awake.

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Chapter XXIV

ARRIVAL AT WASHINGTON--MEETS HON. JOHN COVODE--J. W. FORNEY AND SENATORS--TESTIMONY BEFORE COMMITTEE ON THE CONDUCT OF THE WAR--REMARKABLE INTERVIEWS WITH SECRETARY STANTON--A VISIT TO MR. LINCOLN, AT WASHINGTON--THE TELEGRAPH CORPS--AGAIN ORDERED TO THE FRONT, AT FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA.

It was my good fortune at the time of my return home to meet with the Hon. A. A. Barker, of Ebensburg, Pennsylvania, who had been a friend of the family all my life, who subsequently represented that district of Pennsylvania in Congress. Mr. Barker may be described as being in every sense a large man. He was one of those great six-feet, bone-and-sinew fellows, who, as he used to say, "come from way down in Maine, where I was bred and born." He was not only large in stature, but broad and liberal otherwise, with a head and heart in correct proportion. He lives yet, an honored citizen and a veritable Daniel in the politics of his adopted State, and will, I have no doubt, be glad to read in print the history of his protege of the early days of the war.

Mr. Barker took me in charge for the time being, accompanying me to Washington at his own expense, where I was to meet with my former friend, the Hon. John Covode. We went by way of Philadelphia, in order to again meet Parson Brownlow, who was then a guest of Mr. George W. Childs.

The purpose of the visit was to obtain from Mr. Brownlow some additional endorsement from him, of my being in Knoxville, that my friends desired to use in Washington.

In those days I cared but little for such matters, as proofs or evidence of work I had endeavored to perform, which, as a rule, we left to others to look after in my interest. It would have been better for me in those days, perhaps, if I had been blessed with a little bit of ordinary business management, but I confess here that I had but a small allowance of "business sense," as that term is applied to selfish interests. I am thankful, however, for a good memory, and really believe that, after a little quiet reflection, I can bring to my mind nearly everything that happened to me during the war--that is worth remembering.

I was induced to say that I had but little common sense, by the reflection, after a lapse of twenty-five years, that I must have shown a lamentable lack of policy, by traveling about so defiantly at this time in Pennsylvania and Washington, clothed in a dirty Rebel uniform. This in itself was bad enough, but I was frequently so indiscreet as to show some boyish resentment toward every person whom I imagined was showing an idle curiosity as to my history.

I became contrary, or, if you please, cranky, and indignantly refused to act upon the suggestion of friends, that I should make a change in my dress, declaring stubbornly that I should face the President in that uniform--and I did--at the War Department office in Washington; but it was a foolish thing to do, and gave me a heap of trouble subsequently, as we shall see.

One of the most unlucky or unfortunate changes that had occurred during my long absence in Richmond was, that Simon Cameron had been relieved, as the Secretary of War, by the Hon. E. M. Stanton.

The kind and clever old Pennsylvania statesman, who had been induced to take such an interest in my work, and to whom I was directly responsible, was, at the time of my return, away off in St. Petersburg, Russia, as Minister for the United States.

Colonel Thomas A. Scott, who had been an Assistant Secretary of War to Mr. Cameron, and whose personal endorsement to Mr. Cameron had first set me going, had also been relieved by a Mr. P. H. Watson, who was at the time Acting Assistant Secretary to Mr. Stanton.

My brother, Spencer, who, for some months previously, had been in the employ of the War Department as a telegraph operator, and whose relations with the Government officials were necessarily somewhat of a confidential character, took me to his room in a boarding-house on F street, where were living a number of War Department clerks. Spencer thought the fact of my wearing the Rebel uniform one of the best kind of jokes, and he, consequently, took great delight in calling the attention of all his War Department associates to the fact.

My old and constant friend "Glory to God," as the Hon. John Covode was called, was the only man of prominence in Washington that I knew, or who had any knowledge of my previous undertakings. He was a Member of Congress from a Pennsylvania District adjoining my own home, near Pittsburgh. Congress was in session at this time, and it so happened that, for some months previously Mr. Covode had been stirring things up in the House at a lively rate, by his persistent investigation of our military men and movements in Virginia. There had been an investigation of Bull Run, of Ball's Bluff massacre, of old Patterson, in Pennsylvania, and, more recently, a great hubbub had been raised all over the country about General McClellan's failure, or slowness, in moving "on to Richmond" via Manassas.

There was, indeed, a great deal of this sort of thing going on, the details of which had been ground up and sifted through the one joint "Committee on the Conduct of the War," of which Mr. Covode was chairman. To make a long story short, all will see--to use a vulgar term--that my arrival was "just nuts to Old Glory," as some one told me. If an angel had dropped down from the sky to corroborate the honest old man's assertion, it would not have been more opportune.

I had been inside the Rebel lines for months. I had obtained the Rebel opinions, officially, of Manassas, after the battle, and knew the exact strength of the Rebel Army was not one-half as large as McClellan's scare had represented it to be. I had heard the comments of the Rebel Secretary of War on Ball's Bluff massacre. Mr. Covode could, and did, endorse me as a "reliable devil," as he put it, in the committee room, and, of course, I was willing enough to be of service to my old friend, and was glad that I was able to substantiate nearly all of his statements.

The morning of my arrival in Washington, I hunted up Mr. Covode, and found him in his rooms at the old Avenue Hotel, the large, plain, old affair, that once stood at the corner of Seventh and Market Space. I was an early caller, and, without a card, knocked at his door before he was out of bed. To his sleepy growl of "Who's there?" I simply gave my name. There was only one word of reply, "Helloa," in a loud emphatic tone; then in a more moderate voice, he continued, as if talking to himself: "Wait a minute. I got word you were coming, and have been expecting you every day."

The door opened, and the great Pennsylvania statesman stood before me--in his robe de nuit--grinning all over, with his hair all mussed up and his bare legs sticking out under his shirt.

He was about as funny a looking object as anything I had met with in my travels. He wasn't embarrassed, but, as he shook hands, I was drawn inside, and the door closed with a bang. All that was said that morning would make quite a chapter.

The circumstance which remains strongest in my mind to-day is, that he sat on the edge of the bed, and asked question after question in such an interested way that he seemed to me to have forgotten all about dressing himself. I was for the time being more interested in seeing him get some clothes on than in the fate of McClellan's army.

After breakfast, Mr. Covode took me to the Capitol, and the first person I met there was Colonel J. W. Forney, then editor of the Philadelphia Press, and also Secretary of the Senate. Mr. Forney impressed me most favorably; in truth, I felt more at home with him than with my old friend Covode--probably because Mr. Forney had the tact of drawing out his subjects and was more able to practice the suave gentleman than was the sturdy, honest old John. I was for a time taken in charge by Mr. Forney, who, in turn, introduced me to several Senators, among them the Hon. Edgar Cowan, of Pennsylvania. I remember Mr. Forney saying, in an aside to Senator Cowan, and the others to whom I was introduced, "He is a capital subject." Mr. Forney did me another valuable service at this time. Of course I had no money; I had been depending upon the generous pocketbook of my good friend Barker. I made Mr. Forney and Mr. Covode acquainted with my circumstances, by a request for some immediate and active employment to enable me to earn my expenses.

Mr. Forney had a clerk make out some sort of a "voucher," which I think must have been for mileage and witness fees all over the Rebel country that I had traversed, another clerk cashed the paper for me, and, in this way, I was furnished at once with quite a nice little pile of crisp, new greenbacks from the Secretary of the Senate.

This was the first and only cash that I have ever received for all those months of service--of trial, distress and danger--excepting that which the good comrades who will contribute by subscribing for these "recollections of the unforgotten days to all of us."

Amongst the other members of the Pennsylvania delegation, to whom I was introduced that morning, was the Hon. S. S. Blair, then and now a resident of Hollidaysburg, Pennsylvania. As Mr. Blair is the sole survivor of those who were with me at that time, I desire particularly that his testimony should be added to establish the correctness of my narrative, or to serve as a review notice, if it ever attains to the distinction of a criticism or becomes the subject of a controversy.

The Hon. J. K. Moorehead, who represented Pittsburgh, was another of the delegation in my interest. Thus it will be seen that, through the management of Mr. Forney, the entire Western Pennsylvania delegation, including Senator Cowan, of Greensburg, Pennsylvania, had been interested in my "report."

As I have before stated, I paid but little attention to these details at the time. I had but the one request, and, as before, which was, that I should be commissioned as a Second Lieutenant in the Regular Cavalry Service and detailed on the General Staff, in active field service. I wanted to go at once to the field, and cared but little for the "effect of my testimony" before the committee, or the pecuniary reward for the service.

Mr. Forney said, in his pleasant way, that was so grateful to me that I have not forgotten a word of it: "Why, certainly, you must have that at least, if not more;" but, turning to Covode, he continued: "Curtin can do better than that for us."

Covode thought anything whatever that I wanted could be done, but suggested, kindly, that it would be better for me not to take a commission in the Volunteers of Pennsylvania, because I should have to be put in over the heads of some others, and that would make it ugly for me personally.

I agreed with Mr. Covode heartily in that. I had been in the Rebel service long enough to see that this sort of thing didn't work there, because Claiborne, the Mississippi Lieutenant, was really treated as a foreigner, or outsider, by the rest of us "refugees from Maryland." So it was arranged between them that I should have a commission in the Regular Army. In support of this, Mr. Forney kindly talked to Senator Cowan in my behalf, who expressed some doubts about getting a Lieutenancy, saying in his plain way:

"Why, we may just as well ask the Secretary to make him a Brigadier-General; he can do that, because they are making Generals every day, but they are not making any Lieutenants in the Regular Army."

But Mr. Forney insisted in his agreeable way: "But, my dear sir, here is a young man who has done our State--who has done the Government more service than some of our Generals; he has been all over Virginia, and knows all about the Rebel Army, and all about Richmond--from personal visits; why," with an expression of disgust, "his services are simply indispensable at this time; he should be sent down to the army, where the information he has gained will be of immediate use to us."

The only answer that Senator Cowan made to this appeal, as he looked me all over critically, as he would if buying a horse: "You have the right sort of grit in you, but I don't believe we can get it."

It was arranged between them all that I should first give my testimony before the Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War. Mr. Covode and Mr. Forney quietly conferred among themselves (they were Republicans and Senator Cowan a Democrat), and concluded that only a small part of my history should be made public at present.

I don't know why this was thought necessary, but while Mr. Covode and I walked together over to the committee room on the House side of the Capitol, he cautioned me, in his fatherly way, not to talk too much, and to answer only such questions as he would suggest.

On page 480, volume 3, of the printed document containing the report of the Committee on the Conduct of the War, will be found only that portion of my testimony that Mr. Covode and Mr. Forney, as my political managers, thought advisable to put on record at the time. The full story was detailed at different times to Mr. Forney and Mr. Covode, and others, but has never been made fully public until the present time.

After I had finished my testimony to suit Mr. Covode, and had been severely cross-examined by some of the opposition members of the committee, I was told through my friend Covode, that I should make myself perfectly comfortable; that he and the rest of the delegation would see that I was properly cared for.

I felt that a great load had been taken off my shoulders in this one day--that the secrets of my trip, which I had been carrying around with me, among Rebels and friends for months, had been safely deposited with the Government, and that I was at last free, and could do as I pleased once more.

I had worn the Rebel uniform to the Capitol and into the committee room, and gave my testimony standing at "attention" in it.

In giving my full testimony to the Committee on the Conduct of the War, I had no thought of antagonizing the War Department. My secret service was, in a manner, "irregular," and, instead of reporting direct to the War Office or to a General in the field, I was induced to give the story to a committee that was investigating both. In this way it was not "suppressed" in anybody's interest, but afterward had the effect of antagonizing certain War Department detectives against my subsequent services, as will be shown further on.

The first thing that I did with some of the money which had been given me was to trim myself out from head to foot in the best suit of clothes that I could find in Washington, but I preserved the uniform for future use. The next number on the programme was to take my brother and some of his friends to "Gautier's"--which was then the celebrated French restaurant--or, Chamberlains, of to-day, in Washington, where we indulged in a generous lay-out. The third number on the programme, I will simply describe as "making a night of it." We all went to the Canterbury and had a pleasant evening together, while I told the party of similar experiences at night in the Rebel Capitol at Richmond.

While I remained in Washington waiting for an office, like the office-seekers that now hang about the Departments, I remember that I was continually worried with the dreadful thought that McClellan's great army of good-looking officers would get there while I was being tethered, like a young steer, in the Capitol.

My case was "left entirely in the hands of my friends"--that is, I had nothing whatever to do with it but to wait, which was about the most difficult part of the job. As I recollect it, Mr. Covode was not on such particularly good terms with Mr. Stanton as he had been with the Pennsylvania Secretary, General Simon Cameron.

It is likely, too, that Mr. Covode's disposition to be continually "investigating things," caused the new administration of the War Department some annoyance. Covode was naturally Cameron's champion, because they were both Pennsylvania politicians--if for no other reason. On account of some such feeling as this, perhaps, it was thought advisable among my "managers" that Mr. Covode should not personally bother Mr. Stanton--in my interest; that part of the contract was to be left to Senator Cowan and John W. Forney, while Covode was to see Mr. Lincoln.

I loafed about the Capitol a great deal during the session each day, and I reckon, in my persistence and restlessness, that I bothered these statesmen a good bit. I had assurances from Mr. Covode every day that "it was all right," but I remembered that this was the exact way in which he talked to me on the former visit, and I was blunt enough to remind him of this truth, when he promptly got it back on me by saying:

"It would have been all right, too, if you had come back here, but we all thought you were dead for so long."

He explained over and over again that the War Office was so crowded, on account of the spring campaign, that it was impossible to do anything there in a rush.

One day Senator Cowan, of Pennsylvania, handed me a very brief note, which read as follows, bluntly directing me to go to the War Department and watch my chance to present it personally to Mr. Stanton.

"HON. E. M. STANTON, Secretary of War.

"Dear Sir: The bearer is the young man who has given important testimony to the committee, about whom papers have been filed for an appointment where he can do the most good. It is suggested that you may be able to learn something additional of value from him.

Yours truly, "EDGAR COWAN."

The Senator didn't give me a chance to ask him any questions, but left me abruptly to talk to a group of persons who were waiting for him. I saw Mr. Forney and showed him the letter, which somehow or other was not satisfactory to me.

Mr. Forney folded it up and handed it back to me, saying, in his elegant way: "You just take that paper up to Stanton, and hang to him till he sees you. That's all he wants." Then, in a fatherly way, he gave me the advice to "let him do all the talking; you just answer his questions."

In an hour I was at the old War Department again. I first put on my gray jacket, but had covered it with a light spring duster or overcoat, at Mr. Forney's suggestion.

The War Department of 1862 was a desolate looking old affair, something after the architectural style of the "four story barracks," in a well-kept arsenal reservation. On the second floor a long corridor extended from one end of the building to the other, running east and west, on each side of which were the rooms of the principal chiefs. In the southeast corner, nearest to the White House, was the Secretary's apartments, with whose location I was somewhat familiar, because of some previous long "waits" and mighty short interviews with Mr. Cameron when he was Secretary.

On this visit, as before, I found in this corridor rows of people seated along the wall--ladies and gentlemen, officers, and a few sick-looking soldiers; big fat contractors elbowed the thin-faced, big-nosed, Jewish sutler, Congressmen, and, in fact, all sorts of people; and it is safe to say that every one of them had been there for hours, perhaps days and weeks previously, waiting their turn, or an opportunity to get to talk to the Secretary on their own business, which, of course, was more important to them than anybody else's.

There was a handsome soldier of the Regular Army in citizen's dress on duty at the outside door, as an orderly or messenger. When I saw all that were ahead of me, I was discouraged, but, profiting by past experience, I made a break for the Secretary's office, when I was stopped by the orderly, who demanded my business. I was in a Rebel uniform, but the soldier orderly didn't notice that; he said his orders were not to admit anybody at that time. I showed him my letter, saying, with an assumption of importance, that I was sent to the Secretary by Senator Cowan to present it personally. A Senator, especially a Democratic Senator's request, was really of greater weight than half a dozen common Congressmen, because it was important just then that the Government should conciliate the loyal Democrats in Congress.

The soldier took a card, wrote the Senator's name and my own on it, and invited me to a vacant chair in the Secretary's office. There were rows of people sitting alongside the wall, inside the room, just as there was out in the corridor; but I had gained one point; I was on the inner circle.

I had never seen Mr. Stanton before, and was not nearly so anxious to see him again, after the first time. I need not describe the great War Secretary's personal appearance. His face resembles the photographs, and has always struck me as being the best likeness extant of all those great men. He was not so tall as one would think from looking at a picture of his face; and when I saw him, he stood at a small, high desk, a little to one side of the room, very much to my mind in the position of a school-teacher before an old-fashioned desk. The desk itself was a plain, square, long-legged affair, precisely such as we used to see our teachers stand behind, or that are used more recently by auctioneers on street sales. The sitters on the anxious benches all around the front portion of his room, with their serious watchful faces, helped the illusion, that I was in the presence of a lecturer or judge, awaiting my turn for sentence, like the rest of the culprits.

The attendant found me a chair alongside of a natty-looking young officer in uniform on one side, and a big, fat Congressman on the other; he laid my card, with the Senator's name, on Mr. Stanton's desk.

The Secretary was then standing beside his pulpit, talking in his positive way to some old gentleman; he was so intent on this business that he never deigned to look at my card when it was left on his table. We did not overhear the conversation between the Secretary and his visitor, and being at a loss for something to do, I turned to the young officer beside me and said something as to the prospect for a talk with the Secretary. He replied in a very polite way, that he had been waiting for hours, for a single word; that, with him, it was a question of life and death; but he couldn't get any audience until the Secretary "called his name" from the cards on his desk.

The young man had so impressed me by his courteous manner that I became curious to know his errand, which he explained in a whispered conversation. He was just from the bedside of a dying father, on his way to rejoin his command, his leave having expired; he had stopped at Washington, and, upon the endorsement of influential Congressmen, he had called to ask the Secretary to extend his leave so that he might be at his father's bedside and bury him before leaving for the army. The officer told me all of this in a trembling voice, while his eyes were filled with tears. I felt so much sympathy for him that I offered to give him my time if my name should be called before his. At my urgent suggestion, when the old gentleman was about to leave the Secretary, the young officer approached Mr. Stanton, who bluntly demanded his name. Then looking over his file of papers to what his business was, while the young fellow in the most genteel and effective way stated his wishes to the Secretary. I shall never, never forget the words that Mr. Stanton spoke on that occasion; they "sank deeply into my heart," perhaps, as also into that of the young officer.

"I cannot extend your leave, but I will accept your resignation!" As he said this, he handed to the officer the papers he had filed. Looking him over in a contemptuous way, the Secretary turned to look after the next victim on his list. The officer mildly protested, saying: "Why, Mr. Secretary I do not want to leave the service; I merely want to spend the last days--"

Here he was roughly interrupted by Mr. Stanton who repeated in an angry tone, so that all could hear: "I'll accept your resignation, sir."

The poor fellow would not consent to be driven from the service in this way, even to attend his father's last wishes. When he returned to pick up his hat, which had been left on the chair beside me, his face was white, and his hands trembled so that he could scarcely take hold of his hat. I assisted him, and together we left the Secretary's office in deep disgust. I had enough for one day. After reporting the incident to Mr. Covode and others, they mildly laughed at my indignation, while they expressed the cold-blooded opinion that it was only one of Stanton's ordinary jokes.

After this, I was more than ever anxious to get out of Washington, and began to feel that I should be willing to take anything at all, that savored of active service in the field, being perfectly content to leave my personal business with Mr. Stanton in the hands of my friends. It was decided among them all that I should be taken to the White House to see Mr. Lincoln, personally. All the arrangements for this visit were made, as nearly as I can recollect, without consulting me about it in any way at all. It was generally understood, I reckon, that I needed somebody to properly present my business affairs, and that it was hardly worth while to bother with me about such things. I only know that I was told by Mr. Covode to get ready to accompany him to the White House.

"We are all going up in General Moorehead's carriage and want you to be on hand sure, as it's hard to get them all together." I didn't know who "they" were, until I came down to his room rigged out in a grey jacket. While we were waiting for the carriage to come around for us, Mr. Covode explained further: "We're going to make a demand on the President for your pay out of the secret-service fund."

I had only heard in a general way that anything of this sort was contemplated. I can say here again, sincerely, that my only desire and aim was for a commission in the Regular Army, and a detail on the Staff, where I should have a chance for active service in the field. While we waited Mr. Covode explained more fully:

"You are entitled to this; the fund is being squandered shamefully by certain influences, who are making the President believe that they are giving him valuable information. We all know your service and experience has been of some practical use, and you are going to be paid for it, too, in cash as well as in promotion."

He had a way of saying things in a very emphatic style when he became interested, when I expressed my thanks for his interest and proffered a remuneration, he began to talk bad grammar at me in such a way that I had to beg off.

The carriage called; in it were Senator Cowan, General J. K. Moorehead, M. C., from Pittsburgh; Hon. S. S. Blair, of Hollidaysburg, and Hon. John Covode. I jumped up with the coachman, and we made a charge on the White House. Before we started off there was a short but pointed business consultation among them. Senator Cowan had suggested: "Now we had better have an understanding before we go up there."

General Moorehead agreed that this was necessary; and when I undertook to make a suggestion about getting Mr. Lincoln to give me a commission, Covode told me in polite terms but decided language, but in a fatherly way: "Now you've got to keep quiet."

The rest all thought this quite a funny remark. When Covode crawled into the carriage, Mr. Moorehead said, "Well, what's the programme?" Covode explained that it was to be a demand for pay from the President's secret-service fund. No one had even suggested the amount, and I reckon Mr. Covode's idea was to leave this discretionary with the President, but Mr. Blair and Moorehead, who were business men as well as statesmen, insisted that it would be better to settle a sum in advance.

"Make it enough," said Mr. Blair.

"Yes, we may just as well make it $10,000," observed the Senator.

Mr. Moorehead shrewdly suggested: "We have to appropriate this secret-service money anyhow, and our votes will go for this amount."

Covode admitted that, "We have given him hundreds of thousands of dollars for this use already."

This, in a general way was the plan and purpose of the visit to Mr. Lincoln on that date.

It failed--not that the claim was rejected by the President--it was never presented to him or anybody else. When we reached the White House we were informed on the threshold that "the President had that day gone to Fortress Monroe." That ended it for that day, and for all time. Soon after, I left Washington for another trip. The same crowd were never again brought together in this interest. As I have said, I was not a good manager, and perhaps neglected my own interests in this respect.

I have to show my children, however, that which is dearer to me than gold--a commission as a Second Lieutenant signed by Abraham Lincoln and E. M. Stanton. That will remain for all time on the war records of my country. If I had secured this money, I might have failed in obtaining this commission, and no doubt the $10,000 would have soon disappeared from sight forever and no record of it left.

A few days after this visit--the date of which may be fixed by a reference to the books, which will indicate the time of Mr. Lincoln's visit to Fortress Monroe--I saw Mr. Stanton personally, but only for a moment; he was not such a dreadful person after all, as I expected to find him.

Since I had been a disgusted witness to the abrupt interview between Mr. Secretary Stanton and the young officer who desired his leave extended that he might visit his dying father, I was not particularly anxious to encounter the Secretary at close range. I had said as much so emphatically to Mr. Covode and the other friends, all of whom laughed at my earnestness, and consoled me with the remark that they had all suffered in the same way at the War Office, and that I must not expect to be welcomed with open arms by Mr. Stanton. It was no good to explain to them that I didn't want to be welcomed, or kicked out either. I was told that I must see Mr. Stanton; that they could do nothing for me without first securing his approval. I recall in this connection an old chestnut, which explains in reality pretty nearly the true status of affairs between the President and his Secretary of War. In conversation with a group of friends about my "case," Mr. Covode had expressed the conviction that for him to interfere with Stanton would only operate against my chances, as he was thought to be a meddlesome investigator; and another Congressman related the story about Mr. Lincoln telling an importunate office-seeker that he, the President, "didn't have very much influence with this administration."

I called at the War Office several times, and always found the same old crowd in the corridors, and, though I was somewhat "fresh" and impulsive, I could not raise the courage to face the grim old Secretary, because he was always engaged with somebody, and I feared to intrude or interrupt him with my personal affairs.

As I have said previously, I had a brother, who was employed in the War Department Telegraph Office, but as his hours for duty were at night, I could not avail myself of this opportunity to loaf with him. One day, however, after so much annoying delay, I put on my Rebel jacket, screwed up my courage, and determined to settle the matter by a bold dash on the War Office. My brother accompanied me, and, while waiting in the ante-room of the telegraph office, I had a long and quite an agreeable chat with General Anson Stager, who had charge of all the military telegraph. The General, in those days, was quite a jolly, good-natured gentleman; and, in this respect, almost the opposite to his subordinate, Major Eckert, who was very dignified in his bearing toward his subordinates. I was young and not unobserving, and I noticed that Major Eckert always lost his dignity and high-and-mighty bearing, when he had any dealings with his superiors. General Stager was alike to all.

General Stager became much interested in my secret service more especially in that part wherein I had attached myself to the Rebel telegraph office at General Beauregard's headquarters, from whence I could overhear all the messages between headquarters and Richmond. General Stager laughed heartily at my recital of these events. He looked at my rebel jacket with interest, took hold of my arm to critically examine the texture of the cloth, and wound up by saying:

"Well, you certainly are an acquisition to us, and I want you in our service."

When I explained my desire to obtain a commission, that I might get into active service, the General endeavored in a kindly way to persuade me saying:

"It wasn't worth while to do that; they could pay me more salary than a commission as Second Lieutenant would bring beside I should be allowed all the liberty I chose at the front, being at headquarters as a civilian, furnished with a horse or ambulance, and all the rations I could consume, and independent of the military."

He made it very attractive indeed; but I resisted the temptation, determined to stick to my plans. I had expressed a willingness to do or undertake any special service, but I wanted to be an officer. After consultation with some one in another room, who was either the Secretary himself or some of the high officials in the Adjutant-General's Department, General Stager came back to me and clinched that which came very near being a nail in my coffin. He proposed something like this:

"The army is on the peninsula, and Washington is cut off in a manner from telegraph communication with them, except by means of a dispatch boat to the nearest point on the Maryland side of the Chesapeake, from which the telegraph is open to Washington. If you could open communication for us, overland--say from Fredericksburg, or the outposts of our forces there, to connect with McClellan on the Peninsula by courier service--it would be a good thing for us, as we could hear from our army so much quicker."

Everybody will appreciate the anxiety of the officials to hear from the Army promptly and frequently. In other words, I was to operate secretly between our lines below Fredericksburg and McClellan's advance, only a gap of a few miles, but not occupied by either army but infested with "guerrillas."

I accepted the proposition without a moment's thought about the probable difficulties that were to be met with in carrying out the undertaking, and I had been over that country in Virginia and was familiar with it. I was anxious to do anything that would give me an opportunity for active service.

My brother interposed some objections, which General Stager thoughtfully considered, and, after admonishing me of the danger in my case, he again proffered service in the telegraph department. It was arranged between us that I should call again on the following day; meantime he would consult with some of the officers and ascertain their wishes in regard to the matter.

General Eckert, who was in the room, had overheard part of my story--he had not been consulted at all by General Stager--to my mind, showed in his manner some little resentment toward me, probably because of the interest that General Stager had seemingly taken in my affairs.

He felt impelled to make some remark, intended to be jocular, about a Rebel uniform being in the War Department. I didn't pay much attention to it at the time, and probably would not have observed the circumstance had not several others, who were present, made it a subject of conversation among themselves at our dinner-table that day.

In leaving the War Department Building that day, I walked out by the basement or east door, nearest the White House, intending to take the short cut, through the White House grounds, to our boarding-house on F street.

Just as I passed out of the door my quick eye detected President Lincoln coming up the few stone steps into the doorway; as he slowly walked or shuffled along, he was apparently reading the contents of a paper, which he held before his eyes with both hands. I had seen Mr. Lincoln inaugurated, and frequently since. I recognized him at a glance, and to get a closer look, I respectfully stood to one side of the steps to let him pass. A gentleman was walking alongside of the President, and as the two passed the President became crowded quite close to me, and actually touched or rubbed against my Rebel uniform. Mr. Lincoln apparently did not see me; he was too deeply immersed in reading, or trying to read, the letter he held in his hand as he walked, while the gentlemen with him was gabbling in his ear in a very earnest manner.

So it happened, as I had predicted, when my home friends had shown their opposition to my wearing the gray, that I saw Mr. Lincoln while dressed in my Rebel uniform. I had shaken hands with "the other President"--Jeff Davis--in Richmond, only a short time previously, while attired in the same court dress.

This "interview" wasn't exactly as satisfactory to me as it might have been, if I had been presented by the delegation that had called with me a few days sooner. But I had "seen the President," and, as there had been such a great opportunity presented for some further secret service in my line, I didn't care very much just then whether I should again get the crowd together for another call or not.

That evening I saw Mr. Covode, to whom I related my interview with General Stager, telling him of the plan upon which I had agreed to make the trip to Richmond again. The old man put on his specks, looked over the top of them at me in a curious sort of way, and said, rather savagely: "You beat hell, you do." Then in a more moderate tone he protested earnestly against it, saying: "You mustn't let everybody make use of you that way."

When I explained that I was only desirous of getting out of Washington, and anxious to be on hand in the field when Richmond was taken, and intimated further that Mr. Stanton and the President would give me the commission on sight if I should come in first with some good news, he remonstrated earnestly: "Oh, yes; you go down there again in that shape, and you wont need any commission; they will hang you, sure, to the first tree."

I had to leave the old man without getting any encouragement from him, but had given him a promise, before saying "Good-night," that I would not do anything further in the matter until I saw him again; in the meantime he urged me to see Mr. Stanton.

I went to bed that night very much disturbed in mind. While I was not so very anxious to continue the secret-service work, I felt so worn-out and disappointed at the dilatoriness in getting anything settled in Washington toward a commission, that I was about ready to both give it up and to try again. We were continually hearing so much that was exciting from the front, that I was really half wild and in a fever of impatience to be on hand among the boys.

The next day I called at the War Office early, determined to see Mr. Stanton, or at least make a sure thing of his seeing me before I should again leave.

I had preserved Senator Cowan's letter and with it in my hand I made an onslaught on the regular orderly at the door. He had gotten to know me, and pleasantly suggested:

"If you hang to it with your teeth, you will get all you want."

With his assistance I got my card in to the Secretary, and was again shown a seat inside the Secretary's room, to wait until my name was called.

In addition to the regular crowd, there seemed to be a delegation of some kind in an adjoining room, as I judged from the loud talking. The Secretary came out of the room, but, before he could reach his pulpit, he was called back; then, in a few minutes, he again made his appearance in the doorway, talking back to those inside in his usual vigorous style. Feeling desperate, and always impulsive, I made a bold break and handed the Secretary my letter before he reached his desk, being careful to prelude my intrusion by saying: "Senator Cowan directed me to hand you this personally."

With a sharp glance of impatience at me, he took the letter, walked to his desk, and, without opening it, began to deliberately look over his pile of cards. I stood my ground, right in front of him, feeling very much like a guilty school-boy who had been called up by his teacher for punishment.

When Mr. Stanton raised his eyes from the cards and spied me, still standing in front of him, he looked towards me then as if remembering the letter, and said to me: "Where is the note from Senator Cowan?"

"I gave it to you, Mr. Secretary," said I tremblingly.

He looked around, found the envelope, and, while he read it, I felt in my soul that I would rather face Jeff Davis and the whole Rebel Army again than the Secretary of War. I resolved, if I ever got out of that alive, I'd risk anything in the front rather than go back into that room and face the Secretary of War.

When he finished reading the letter, he looked me over earnestly as he folded it up slowly. It will be remembered that this paper referred to me as having been every place in the South; that I had a most valuable experience, etc.

The Secretary astonished me by saying, in the most agreeable and gentle tones, as he looked benevolently through his glasses: "I would like to talk with you, but I'm engaged, and I will have to refer you to the Assistant-Secretary to-day."

I was too scared to make an immediate reply. The Secretary, calling the orderly to him, said to him, as he endorsed something on the bottom of my letter: "Take this gentleman to the Assistant-Secretary."

That was all, but that was enough for me for one day. If there was any one person in all Washington City for whom, or against whom, I entertained an unjust prejudice--I might say, a deep-seated hatred--it was Mr. P. H. Watson, the Assistant-Secretary of War.

I had never met him; in fact, I had never seen him; but the simple fact that he had taken the place of my old friend Colonel Thomas A. Scott in the War Office, since Cameron's removal, was of itself sufficient to turn me against him; but, in addition to this fact, I had gathered from Mr. Covode and the rest of the Pennsylvania delegation, as well as the telegraph boys in the War Department, that Mr. Watson, and his clique of friends, had scandalously maligned Mr. Scott personally and abused Mr. Cameron politically.

I was ushered into the presence of a large, red-headed, sandy-complexioned man, to whom I was introduced, as the young man Mr. Secretary had "directed to present to you."

Mr. Watson, at the moment we entered, was busy with some papers. He was surrounded by clerks, occupying other desks in his room, but at once dropped everything to receive us. Upon reading the Senator's letter and the Secretary's endorsement, he at once became very gracious toward me. And, as he shook hands and drew me to a chair near him, and began some complimentary remarks about my "valuable services," I was not only disappointed at the Secretary in having said not a word about the matter which was uppermost in my mind, but I was also really angry at being handed over to Mr. Watson in a second-handed manner to be pumped by him. Therefore, I didn't pump worth a cent. I was dry. Mr. Watson made it worse for me by the first question he put. "I presume you are in Mr. Pinkerton's service." That was adding insult. I resented this insinuation by asserting emphatically: "I am not a detective at all."

The interview did not last long, so there is not much to say about it here; in fact, it ended rather abruptly, when Mr. Watson further suggested that I should put myself in communication with Mr. Pinkerton, who had charge of all these things. I want to make it as plain right here to all who may read this story as I did to Mr. Watson twenty-five years ago, that I reject with scorn and contempt the intimation that I was a detective, working for money. I declined positively to have any communication with the Chief of the Secret Service, and told Mr. Watson, as my friends had all frequently suggested, that I had done important secret-service work for the Secretary of the War Department, direct, and I wanted something now wherein I could make available my past experiences.

As I had promised Mr. Covode not to make any engagements with any one, and had fulfilled my agreement to see the Secretary, I retired from the War Office in disappointment and disgust.

I saw Mr. Covode and the other friends, to whom I related my experience with Mr. Stanton and Mr. Watson, and, at the same time, declared my intention to leave the city for the front, and enter the army as a private soldier, and work my way up to position by meritorious service in front of the enemy, instead of in the rear.

The day following, before I could get an opportunity to again see General Stager in regard to his proposal, or take any action myself, Mr. Covode sent for me. When I reached his room he said, in his blunt way:

"If you are bound to be in the field, I'll give you a letter to General Haupt, who has charge of the railroad between Fredericksburg and Aquia Creek, and he will give you something to do to keep you busy down there till we can get something fixed up here."

I eagerly accepted this proposal; it was not what I wanted exactly, but it admitted of my going to the front, and that, too, in an official position, wherein I could be on hand and, unmolested, see everything that was being done. I had known General Haupt well, as the accomplished Chief Engineer of the Pennsylvania Railroad, and Mr. Covode had been assured by him, it seems, that he would be delighted to have me in his Military Railroad Service, as I had experience in that direction in Mr. Scott's service.

We were going to rebuild that road right into Richmond the next week, and I consoled myself with the thought that, if I did not reenter Richmond on a horse as an officer, that I might get there all the same on a locomotive.

I was to be paid a good salary and expenses. All my friends thought it just splendid, and I imagine now, though I didn't think so at the time, that the position was created for me just to prevent my getting into trouble again. In a few days I took a morning steamer, armed with an official pass and a bundle of good clothing, and sailed with the greatest anticipations of quickly seeing Richmond. We reached Aquia Creek in a few hours--this, as all the boys will know, was then the leading place or connecting point between the steamers and the railroads to Richmond. After strolling about there for an hour, I got aboard the first train, which was made up of open truck cars, and we rolled over the ten or twelve miles past the straggling camps of our forces then thereabouts, crossing the high and hastily-improvised trestle of bridges that had been built by "sojers," in the place of those destroyed.

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