CHAPTER V.
InJuly, 1863, the news came that George Kirk would meet some men in Greene County to take them to Kentucky. I was determined to go, if I had to crawl part of the way. We met in Greene County, with about a hundred men. We crossed Walden Ridge and the Watauga, Cumberland, Holston and Powell’s Rivers, encountering great hardships. Our provisions gave out, and the only way we could get anything to eat was to find a colored family. They were always loyal, and we could depend on them. They never would “give us away.”
When we reached Camp Dick Robinson, Kentucky, we found a great many East Tennessee men who had made their way through the mountains. Some had organized into companies.
Col. Felix A. Reeve, who is now Assistant Solicitor of the Treasury Department, was organizing the Eighth Tennessee Regiment of Infantry. I reported to him that there were a great many Union men in North Carolina and Cocke County, Tenn., that wanted to come to the Union army, and if he would give me recruiting papers I would attempt to cross the Cumberland Mountain into East Tennessee, and make up a company and bring them back with me. He was very anxious for me to try it, but said it was a very dangerous undertaking, for the rebel soldiers were guarding every road and path that had been traveled by the Union men. I concluded, however, to make the venture.
With my brother Alexander Ragan, Iranious Isenhour, James Kinser and James Ward, I started for East Tennessee. We crossed Cumberland Mountain, and it commenced raining, and when in the night we came to Powell’s River it was overflowing its banks. We had crossed at this place on our journey to Kentucky. The canoe was on the opposite side, and the night was so dark that we could not see across the stream. We knew that if we remained there until daylight we certainly would be captured and hung or shot. My brother and Eisenhour were good swimmers. They stripped off their clothes, and I never expected to see either of them again. I remember that my brother, while we were talking about who should swim over to get the canoe, said to me,
“I am not married, and if I get drowned it will not be so bad; if you were to get drowned, Emeline would be left alone.”
I have since thought thousands of times how noble it was in him to have such fraternal feeling for myself and my wife under circumstances of so trying a nature.
They both plunged in at the same time. The timber was running and slashing the banks on the other side. I held my breath, waiting to hear the result. In a few minutes I heard my brother say, “Here it is, Iranius.” So they brought the canoe over, and one by one we crossed to the other side. It was a frail little thing, and we thought every minute we would be drowned. We crawled up the steep bank to an old field, and as by this time it was daylight, we had to get into the woods and hide for the day. We had filled our haversacks with provisions when we left Camp Dick Robinson, but they were all wet and mixed up; yet we ate them all the same.
James Ward could not see a wink in the night. We did not know it until we had passed Cumberland Mountain. Of course we had to take care of him. He was like a moon-eyed horse; he was all right in the daytime, but we had to travel in the night, and we had to lead him half the time.
After a good many hardships, we reached Cocke County, Tenn. I do not think we met any one but an old man named Walker, whom I will mention later on. He gave us something to eat—in fact all he had, for the rebel soldiers had robbed him and left him destitute.
I went to my home in the night and made myself known, but did not sleep in the house.
While I was away, the rebels came to my father-in-law’s house and took him out to an old blacksmith shop and told him if he did not give up his money they would hang him. He would not tell them where the money was, and they put the rope around his neck and threw it over the joist of the blacksmith shop, and pulled him up by the neck. His daughter came and agreed to tell them where the money was, and they let the old man down, but he was so near dead that he could not stand. They took the money, some gold and some silver, and passed on. My father-in-law was Benjamin F. Neass, an unconditional Union man. These things I relate to show how Union men and families were treated.
In the meantime I sent for my father at Newport, whom I had not seen for a year, and told the messenger not to let him know who wanted to see him, but to meet me in a piece of woodland in a certain place on my father-in-law’s farm. Thenext night he came. I asked him to send word to North Carolina, and every place where he could find out that there were Union men who wanted to go to Kentucky, but not to let a man know who was the “pilot.” He was Deputy Sheriff of the county, and was exempt from going into the rebel army at that time, but later on he had to leave the country.
In a few days word reached North Carolina and Greene and Cocke Counties, Tenn., that a “pilot” would be on hand at a place in the woods on my father-in-law’s farm at a certain date. On the appointed day, one, two and three at a time, they made their appearance. I did not make myself known, but had a man ready to meet them and keep them quiet, for the rebels were all through the country. I knew if they captured me it would be certain death, for they killed every “pilot” they could lay their hands on.
The Union women had been notified when we were to meet, and they had made haversacks and filled them with provisions for their husbands. The mothers and sisters had done the same thing for their sons and brothers who were single.
When the time came at nine o’clock for us to start, I came out and made myself known. There were about a hundred men present, and I had been acquainted with nearly all of them. They were surprised and glad to see me, and I swore in all who wanted to enlist. It was a sad sight. The wives bid their husbands good-bye, net knowing whether they would ever see them again or not, and some of them never did; but they were loyal women and were ready at all times to sacrifice all for their country.
Women in North Carolina and some parts of East Tennessee suffered themselves to be whipped, and everything taken from them, and yet they would not tell where their husbands were. I have known them to cut up the last blanket in the house, to make clothes for their husbands, who were lying out, waiting for a chance to reach the Federal army. The night I left, my wife had cut up a blanket and made for me a shirt and a pair of drawers. All these things go to show what the Union men and women of East Tennessee did to help save this Government when it was in danger of destruction.
We then started on the perilous undertaking, which was more dangerous at that time than upon the previous trip to Kentucky, for men all over East Tennessee had to leave, and the roads and river were guarded. Nearly all the men had old rifles or shotguns that they had rubbed up until they looked like army rifles. We reached the Nola Chucky, about twelve miles from our starting point, about midnight in a violent thunder storm, in the darkest night I had ever witnessed. As the lightning flashed we could see it run along the barrels of the guns. The river was very high, and there seemed to be a general war of the elements.
Each man had been instructed before we started to not speak above his breath, and if possible not to break a stick under foot. We halted in the lane in front of the house occupied by the man who kept the ferry, who was a Union man. His name was Reuben Easterly, six feet and two inches in height. I went to the door and knocked; he was slow to get up, but in a few moments came and opened the door.
Capt. R. A. Ragan Arrested at the School House.See page8.
Capt. R. A. Ragan Arrested at the School House.See page8.
Capt. R. A. Ragan Arrested at the School House.See page8.
I said in a low tone of voice, “One hundred and twenty Union men want to cross the river.”
He hesitated and said, “The river is up, and I am afraid you can’t cross.”
I said to him, “We have to cross, dead or alive. If we remain on this side until daylight, we will be captured and sent to Tuscaloosa.”
He finally agreed to try, as he was always ready to help Union men. He came out and about half of the men got into the flat-bottomed boat and ran up the river a hundred yards to get a start so as to reach the landing on the other side. We waited some time, and heard the old boat strike dirt on the safe side. In about half an hour the boat returned to our side, and the balance of us got in and were soon safely landed with the others. We asked old Reuben what he charged.
“Nothing,” said he, “and I wish you a safe journey to the promised land.”
Those kind words served to cheer us very much on our way.
After crossing the river we started for the Chucky Knobs, where we were to meet several Union men. When we reached the place, in a deep hollow, with no house within a mile, we found fifteen men waiting for us, including Judge Randolph, of Cocke County. A number of Union women had learned that we were to meet at this place, and that their husbands were going away, and they had prepared rations and haversacks to supply them on their dangerous journey. They bid them good-bye, and two of them never saw their husbands again.
We remained there all that day, and that night at eighto’clock we started for good, with about one hundred and thirty men. All seemed to be in good spirits and glad that they were on their way to the “promised land,” as Reuben Easterly said when we crossed the Nola Chucky. We travelled about fifteen miles that night, and next day laid in the woods on the banks of the Watauga River.
When night came we crossed the river—some swimming and some crossing in an old canoe—and continued our journey. At daylight we came to the Holston River, at a point where no Union men had previously crossed on their way to Kentucky. I sent three men up the river to find a canoe, for some of the men could not swim and it was too deep to wade. They found an old canoe, and while some swam and others crossed in the canoe, it was nearly midnight when we all got across.
As the men reached the opposite side, they would lie down and go to sleep while the others were crossing. It was a level place on the opposite side, and stick weeds had grown up about five feet high. When the men had all crossed, they woke up those that were asleep, and we got in line and started. After travelling about half a mile, we heard some one howling at the top of his voice. I sent two of the boys back in haste to find out what was the matter. They found that Jimmie Jones was left asleep on the bank of the river, the boys having failed to awaken him. He said that he dreamed that the rebels were after him and he woke up and found we had gone, and the old man commenced howling like a lost dog. We were very uneasy about it, for fear the rebels had heard him, but evidently they had not and no unpleasant consequences resulted.
Next came Bays and Clinch Mountains, steep and rugged, over which we had to pass; and then came Clinch River, another dangerous place to cross, for the rebels were watching the paths and the rivers to prevent Union men from leaving the country and reaching the Federal lines.
We crossed Powell’s Mountain, tall, rough and rugged; then came Walden Ridge and the Wild Cat Mountain. The nights were so dark we could not see ten feet ahead of us. As we passed through these dark, narrow paths, we marched in single file, myself leading; the next one would take hold of my coat tail, and so on down the line. No man was allowed to speak above his breath. Sometimes men would fall and suffer themselves to be dragged for yards, but never spoke nor murmured a word.
We had some rations on hand that our wives had prepared for us, but they were getting scarce, from the fact that we had to keep away from houses and public roads. It was certainly strange that one hundred and thirty men could travel through a country two hundred miles, thickly settled in some places, and never be seen.
We continued on our march, the night being very dark and the country very rough. The men had become tired and worn out. Some were nearly barefooted, for their shoes were poor before they left home.
The next morning we came in sight of Powell’s River, and remained in a thick piece of woods for the day. We were in a dangerous part of the country—we were nearing Powell’s Valley, the most dangerous place in all our travels. When nightcame we were a little refreshed, but were out of rations, and had been living on quarter rations all the way. We crossed Powell’s River that night, and started for the great task. We had to cross the “Dead Line” and Powell’s Valley the next night.
It was so dark we could not see ten steps ahead of us, and we lost our trail. When daylight came we found ourselves about two miles East of the regular trail. We halted in a deep hollow and had a consultation. I knew that I was “in for it,” if I failed to get them out. I was sure we were East of the home of old man Walker, the man who gave us something to eat on our way to Tennessee on our previous trip, and I thought I could find his house. I started West, and travelled two miles through the woods, in a rough country, with no houses near. It so happened that I came out of the woods at the rear of his house. I lay down in a patch of chinkapin bushes for some time, as I was not certain that I was at the right place, the house being a very ordinary log building.
I crawled to a low rail fence, and knocked on a rail of the fence with a small stone. In a moment Walker came out of the house, looking like a wild man, and seemed to know what was up. He went back and in a few minutes a company of rebel cavalry passed along the road. I waited until they got out of the way and then knocked again and he came out the second time.
He came slowly to where I lay, and said, “What’s the matter?” He recognized me, for it had been but a short time since we had a talk with him on our way from Kentucky to Tennessee. I told him that about one hundred and thirty men had got off the trail and had wandered about two miles East.
He said, “Don’t say a word; there have been several such cases.” He told me to go back in the thicket and not make any noise, for the rebels were travelling up and down the road; and he would bring the men out in a short time. In about two hours Walker returned, with the men trailing after him. I never saw men so happy, for they knew if they had remained there they would be captured and sent to Tuscaloosa.
We were all nearly starved, having eaten up all we had the day before. I asked Walker if he could get us something to eat. He said he did not have anything but Irish potatoes, and they were in the ground, and some apples that were on the trees, and nothing to make bread of. The rebels had taken nearly everything he had. He went to work and dug the potatoes and gathered the apples, and cooked them in some old tin buckets, the only things available. He cooked about two bushels each of the apples and potatoes.
It was about nine o’clock in the morning when he brought the men to his place, and at noon the “dinner” was ready. I got the men in line, and Walker passed the buckets along. As the men had no knives, forks or spoons, they had to use their hands, and some of them were so hungry that they burned their fingers in their eagerness to partake of the delicious and inviting repast. Our generous host continued to supply them until all was consumed.
The men were so famished that while he was cooking the apples and potatoes they peeled the bark off all the little trees and ate it. The whole thicket, about an acre, looked white after the trees had been thus denuded of their bark.
By this time it was two o’clock in the afternoon, and I told the men to lie down and try to sleep, for we had to cross the “Dead Line” and Powell’s Valley that night, and get into Cumberland Mountain, for I knew the rebels were on our trail.
While we were lying on the ground about three hundred yards from the main road, we could hear the rebels riding up and down the road. No man was allowed to make any noise. They obtained a few hours of sleep and rest, which was very much needed. I had two men detailed to keep them from snoring, for some of them you could hear a hundred yards. These men would go around and when a man would snore they would shake him or give him a kick.
When night came, the perilous task of crossing the “Dead Line,” which we had dreaded from the start, was before us. Several men had been killed at this place during the preceding ten days. I asked Walker if he knew a good Union man who could be relied upon to guide us to the road. He said there was a man in the neighborhood who had helped men to Powell’s Valley, and he would send a colored girl to see if the man could be found. By the time we were ready to start, about nine o’clock, he came. I questioned him and he seemed to be all right, so we started, he in the lead. I had been on the trail before, and after travelling about a mile I became a little suspicious and stopped the men. I thought we were too far West. I formed a hollow square, with this man in the center. I questioned him and found we were a mile off the trail. We put the man under arrest, and went back to where we had started and took up the right trail. I do not think this man intended to lead us into the rebels’ hands, but he became bewildered and scared.
Capt. R. A. Ragan at his home after Arrest.See page8.
Capt. R. A. Ragan at his home after Arrest.See page8.
Capt. R. A. Ragan at his home after Arrest.See page8.
We reached Powell’s Valley about three o’clock in the morning, and halted on a little bank about ten feet above the level of the main road leading up and down the valley, which was called the “Dead Line.” I remember this experience as vividly as if it were but yesterday. The woods in which we were concealed were as dark as hell, and hell was in front of us. There were about one hundred and thirty men standing in single file, and I could not hear a man move or breathe. Even death itself could never be more still.
The valley we had to cross was about four hundred yards wide, and not a tree or bush in the valley. The road in front of us was dusty, and while we stood there we heard in the distance the rattle of sabers and the galloping of rebel cavalry. We stood motionless as they passed by, and the dust from the horses’ hoofs came up in the bushes and settled on our shoulders. What a time it was for us! It seemed that we were to cross the “Valley and shadow of death.”
When the rebel cavalry had passed, I cut off twenty-five men and said, “Now, boys, go!” and they did go. They crossed that valley like wild cattle. When I thought they were safely over, I cut off twenty-five more men, and they also landed safely. I waited awhile, and we could hear the rebel cavalry coming back. They passed down again, so we waited about ten minutes and then I said, “Boys, now follow me!” and we all crossed in safety and were at the foot of Cumberland Mountain, which was rough, steep, rocky and pathless. Every man had to pick his way until we nearly reached the top.
As we crossed the valley, the air was filled with the stenchof the decaying bodies of the men who had been killed a few days before. No one could venture to remove or bury them. I understood afterward that they attempted to cross in the daytime, and were killed.
When we reached the top of Cumberland Mountain we came to what was called Bailes’ Meadow, a name and place familiar to nearly every “pilot” and man who crossed the mountain. The boys were worn out, mostly all barefooted and nearly naked from crawling through bushes and briar thickets.
Some of them, when we reached the top of the mountain, looked back into the valley of East Tennessee and said, “Farewell to rebellion;” and they looked North and said, “I can see the Promised Land!” They were happy, but they had been so long hiding in the woods that they would only speak in whispers, and it was a long time before they could break themselves from the habit. You could trail them by the blood from their feet, but like brave men they marched along without a murmur.
James H. Randolph, of Newport, Tennessee, was with us. I was sorry for him as well as the others. His shoes were entirely worn out, and his feet were bleeding. I can remember the circumstances as distinctly as though it were but a few days ago. He looked at me and said, “Bob, when we get back to Tennessee we will give them H—, and rub it in!” He was mad, worn out, and nearly starved to death; but we were out of danger and began to realize that we were free once more.
We went down to the settlements in Kentucky, but could not see a man. It seemed that they had all gone to the Unionor the rebel army; but the farms appeared to be in good condition and well stocked, and the fields were full of corn. We came to a large farm at the foot of the mountain, with a large frame house, painted white, but could not see any one. There was quite a field of corn, just in roasting ears. We halted, and I told the boys we must have something to eat, for we were nearly starved. We had had nothing to eat since we ate the apples and potatoes at old man Walker’s.
I told four or five of the boys to go to the corn field and bring as many roasting ears as they could carry, and some five or six others to go out in the pasture where there was a nice flock of sheep and bring in a couple of fat bucks, and we would cook the mutton with the roasting ears. In the meantime others went to the house and got a wash kettle in which to cook the mutton and corn, and some salt for seasoning. By the time they returned the boys had arrived with the roasting ears. I looked out in the pasture and saw five boys, each pulling a sheep along. They were so hungry that they thought they could eat a sheep apiece; but we only killed two, and they were fine. We had men in the company who could equal any butcher in dressing a sheep. We filled the kettle with corn and mutton, and had a fine barbecue. We had no soap, and when the boys got through, their mouths, faces and hands were as greasy as a fat stand. I sent one of the boys to the house to tell the lady how much we had taken, and ask what she charged.
She said, “Nothing.” Some of the boys had a little gold and silver with them and wanted to pay her.
We reached Camp Dick Robinson in a few days, and remained there some time. Col. Reeve had his regiment nearly made up. We organized our company as Company K, which about completed the regiment. The company was mustered into the service, when the boys drew their uniforms and their new Enfield rifles. After they had shaved, cleaned up and put on their new uniforms, I met them several times and did not know them. They were the happiest men I ever saw.