CHAPTER VIII.
Inthis closing chapter I desire to give some incidents, etc., pathetic, humorous and otherwise, associated with but not included in this somewhat disconnected and rambling account of my varied experiences.
The noble and patriotic women in East Tennessee, whose untold sufferings would fill a volume, most of whom have now passed beyond that bourne from whence no traveler ever returns, should have their names and deeds so far as possible recorded so that generations yet to come may honor them and reverence their memory.
No night was too dark, no danger too imminent, no task too arduous for these self-sacrificing women to perform when the opportunity was presented to them to lend a helping hand to the hunted, starving Union men.
What brave, loving mothers, wives and sisters of East Tennessee, who faced the tempests of hatred and persecution during the Civil War; whose willing hands were always ready to minister to the suffering and distressed; who carried food to the hunted and perishing Union men who wore the homespun clothes wrought by their own hands; who through waitingyears never faltered in love and faith and duty to friend or to country!
The deeds of the loyal men of East Tennessee, could they have been told individually in all their thrilling details and sufferings while they were living, would rival in patriotic interest the stories of Robert Bruce, William Wallace, or the brave Leonidas, who with his three hundred Spartans held the pass at Thermopylae against the hosts of Persian aggressors.
I recall another little incident that occurred in my travels from my home to my father’s, near Newport, Tenn. About midway on the route that I travelled, on the main road leading to Paint Rock, N. C., there lived a man by the name of John Hawk, who had two or three large bull dogs. I had travelled several times over this route, passing within two hundred yards of his house, and had never been molested by these dogs, for I was careful about making any noise. On one occasion I got too near the house, and happened to step on a stick in my path, which snapped loudly and the dogs heard it and started for me, yelping as they ran. I was fast on foot at that time, but the dogs seemed to be gaining on me. I looked for a tree to climb, but they were all too large. I knew the time was coming for me to make a fight for my life, for they were getting dangerously near. I picked up two knotty rocks as I ran, and soon reached a high cross fence that had been built in the woods. Beside the fence stood a small hickory tree, and I climbed up about ten feet just as the dogs reached the place. It was so dark I could hardly see them. They reared up and commenced barking as if they had treed a coon or a possum. I drew backwith one of the stones and struck one of the dogs squarely in the mouth, and I heard his teeth shatter. He raised a howl and ran away, with the other dog after him. After that time I kept that house at a greater distance. That night I made my way home, or in other words, to the mountains close by.
Old Uncle David’s Prayer.—This prayer was delivered by an old colored man before we crossed the Holston River. We found him living in a little log cabin on a farm. He was an old-fashioned preacher, and of course a Union man.
“O Lord God A’mighty! We is yo’ chil’n an’ ’spects you to hea’ us widout delay, cause we all is in right smart ob a hurry! Dese yer gemmen has run’d away from de Seceshers and dere ’omes, and wants to get to de Norf. Dey hasn’t got any time for to wait! Ef it is ’cording to de destination ob great Hebben to help ’em, it’ll be ’bout necessary fo’ de help to come right soon! De hounds an’ de rebels is on dere track! Take de smell out ob de dogs’ noses, O Lord! and let Gypshun darkness come ober de eysights ob de rebels. Confound ’em, O Lord! Dey is cruel, and makes haste to shed blood. Dey has long ’pressed de black man an’ groun’ him in de dust, an’ now I reck’n dey ’spects dat dey am a gwin’ to serve de loyal men de same way. Help dese gemmen in time ob trouble, an’ left ’em fru all danger on to de udder side ob Jo’dan dry shod! An’ raise de radiance ob yo’ face on all de loyal men what’s shut up in de Souf! Send some Moses, O Lord! to guide ’em fru de Red Sea ob Flickshun into de promis’ land! Send some great Gen’ral ob de Norf wid his comp’ny sweepin’ down fru dese yer parts to scare de rebels till dey flee like de Midians,an’ slew dereselves to sabe dere lives! O Lord! bless de Gen’rals ob de Norf! O Lord! bless de Kunnels! O Lord! bless de Capt’ins! O Lord! bless der loyal men makin’ dere way to de promis’ land! O Lord, Eberlastin’! Amen.”
This prayer, offered in a full and fervent voice, seemed to cover our case exactly, and we could join in the “amen.” We then crossed the Holston River, but not dry shod.
Some time in 1862 the loyal men of Cocke County, East Tennessee, refused to go into the rebel army. They lived in what was called the Knobs. There were about four hundred of these men, some farmers, some mechanics and some blacksmiths, all loyal to the Government.
Leadbeater with his command was sent to Parrottsville, in the same county, and went into camp for the purpose of looking after these men, who had built breastworks on a high hill in that locality. They sawed off gum tree logs about the length of a cannon, and bored out holes in these logs large enough to load with tin cans full of large bullets and pieces of iron. They made iron bands out of wagon tires, and put them around the log cannons to keep them from exploding when fired. It was said that they could fire these wooden guns with accuracy.
The rebels heard of these preparations, and with a large force went into this Knob country and found the works, and captured about one hundred of these men and brought them to Parrottsville, where the army was in camp. They put them into a large one-story frame school-house, and placed a heavy guard around the prison, They kept them there for some time and treated them like brutes.
A man by the name of Hamilton Yett, who was a strong rebel, came into the prison and said he wanted “to look at the animals!” Such an expression from a man enraged the prisoners, and one of them, named Peter Reece, picked up a piece of brick from an old fire-place and threw it at Yett, striking him on the head and fracturing his skull. In a few minutes the soldiers came in the prison and took Reece out and hung him to a tree close to the prison, where he hung for three days. His wife and other women came and took the body down and hauled it away, no man being allowed to assist them.
Some of the men who were in this prison were taken to Tuscaloosa, some made their escape, and some were killed while trying to escape. There was a man by the name of Philip Bewley, who was a Methodist preacher, a good man and as strong a Union man as there was in East Tennessee. While in this prison he would pray for the success of the North and for the men who were with him in prison. He lived until after the war.
In this connection a little incident that occurred after the war may not be out of place in this small volume.
There was in our regiment a man by the name of Walker, who had one of his eyes shot out in the campaign in Georgia. When the war was over he came home, studied for the ministry and became a noted preacher.
In 1867 there was a big revival in the same town, Parrottsville, about three hundred yards from the old school-house in which Bewley and the other Union men were confined and where Reece was hung. While the revival was going on onenight at the church, Walker was praying the Lord to guide and direct the people in the way they ought to go, and that all might get to Heaven; Bewley rose up and said,
“Yes, thank the Lord, Brother Walker; there will be no rebels up there to shoot our eyes out!”
I heard this myself, and was not surprised, for he was the wittiest man I ever heard. It raised no excitement, for it was just after the war and prejudice was running high at that time; but, thank God, the war has been ended for forty-five years, and the North and the South have united, and we are now one people, one Nation, under one flag.
U.S.A. flag
FIFTY YEARS AFTER THE WAR.
FIFTY YEARS AFTER THE WAR.
FIFTY YEARS AFTER THE WAR.
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