Two Union Soldiers "Lying Out."
"When the Rebels let us alone, we let them alone; when they come out to hunt us, we hunt them! They know that we are in earnest, and that before they can kill any one of us, he will break a hole in the ice large enough to drag two or three of them along with him. At night we sleep in the bush. When we go home by day, our children stand out on picket. They and our wives bring food to us in the woods. When the Guards are coming out, some of the Union members usually inform us beforehand; then we collect twenty or thirty men, find the best ground we can, and, if they discover us, fight them. But a number of skirmishes have taught them to be very wary about attacking us."
In this dreary mode of life they seemed to find a certain fascination. While we took supper at the house of one of them, eight bushwhackers, armed to the teeth, stood outside on guard. For once, at least, enjoying what Macbeth vainly coveted, we took our meal in peace.
Two of them were United States volunteers, who had come stealthily home on furlough, from our army in Tennessee. They were the first Union soldiers we had seen at liberty for nearly two years. Their faces were very welcome, and their worn, soiled uniforms were to our eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue. Our friends urged us to remain, one of them saying:
"The snow is deep on the Blue Ridge and the Alleghanies; the Rebels can easily trace you; the guerrillas are unusually vigilant, and it is very unsafe to attempt crossing the mountains at present. I started for Knoxville three weeks ago, and, after walking fifty miles, was compelled to turn back. Stay with us until the snow is gone, and the Guards less on the alert. We will each of us take two of you under our special charge, and feed and shelter you until next May, if you desire it."
Two Escaping Rebel Deserters.
The Blue Ridge was still twenty-five miles away, and we determined to push on to a point where we could look the danger, if danger there were, directly in the face. The bushwhackers, therefore, piloted us through the darkness and the bitter cold for seven miles. At midnight, we reached the dwelling of a Union man. He said:
"As the house is unsafe, I shall be compelled to put you in my barn. You will find two Rebel deserters sleeping there."
The barn was upon a high hill. We burrowed among the husks, at first to the infinite alarm of the deserters, who thought the Philistines were upon them. While we shivered in the darkness, they told us that they had come from Petersburg—more than five hundred miles—and been three months on the journey. They had found friends all the way, among negroes and Union men. Ragged, dirty, and penniless, they said, very quietly, that they were going to reach the Yankee lines, or die in the attempt.
Before daylight our host visited us, and finding that we suffered from the weather, placed us in a little warm storehouse, close beside the public road. To our question, whether the Guards had ever searched it, he replied:
"Oh, yes, frequently, but they never happened to find anybody."
An Energetic Invalid.
After we were snugly ensconced in quilts and corn-stalks, Davis said:
"What an appalling journey still stretches before us! I fear the lamp of my energy is nearly burned out."
I could not wonder at his despondency. For several years he had been half an invalid, suffering from a spinal affection. For weeks before leaving Salisbury, he was often compelled, of an afternoon, to lie upon his bunk ofstraw with blinding headache, and every nerve quivering with pain. "Junius" and myself frequently said: "Davis's courage is unbounded, but he can never live to walk to Knoxville."
The event proved us false prophets. Nightly he led our party—always the last to pause and the first to start. His lamp of energy was so far from being exhausted that, before he reached our lines, he broke down every man in the party. I expect to suffer to my dying day from the killing pace of that energetic invalid.
XIV.Saturday, December 31.
Spent all this cold day and night sleeping in the quilts and fodder of the little store-house. At evening, Boothby's party went forward, as the next thirty-five miles were deemed specially perilous.
Pray you tread softly, that the blind mole may notHear a foot-fall!Tempest.
Pray you tread softly, that the blind mole may notHear a foot-fall!Tempest.
Pray you tread softly, that the blind mole may notHear a foot-fall!
Tempest.
There's but a shirt and a half in all my company, and the half shirt is two napkins pinned together and thrown over the shoulders.King Henry IV.
There's but a shirt and a half in all my company, and the half shirt is two napkins pinned together and thrown over the shoulders.King Henry IV.
There's but a shirt and a half in all my company, and the half shirt is two napkins pinned together and thrown over the shoulders.
King Henry IV.
Our emaciated condition, hard labor, and the bracing mountain air, conspired to make us ravenous. In quantity, the pork and corn-bread which we devoured was almost miraculous; in quality, it seemed like the nectar and ambrosia of the immortal gods. It was far better adapted to our necessities than the daintiest luxuries of civilization. In California, Australia, and Colorado goldmines, on the New Orleanslevée, and wherever else the most trying physical labor is to be performed, pork and corn-bread have been found the best articles of food.
The Loyalists were all ready to feed, shelter, and direct us, but reluctant to accompany us far from their homes. They would say:
"You need no guides; the road is so plain, that you cannot possibly miss it."
But midnight journeys among the narrow lanes and obscure mountain-paths had taught us that we could miss any road whatever which was not inclosed upon both sides by fences too high for climbing. Therefore, we insisted upon pilots.
Money Concealed in Clothing.
Fortunately, I had left Salisbury with a one-hundred-dollar United States note concealed under the hem of each leg of my pantaloons, just above the instep, and two more sewn in the lining of my coat. I had in my portmonnaiefifty dollars in Northern bank-notes, five dollars in gold, and a hundred dollars in Confederate currency. Davis brought away about the same amount. We should have left it with our fellow-prisoners, but for the probability of being recaptured and confined, where money would serve us in our extremest need. Now it enabled us to remunerate amply both our white and black friends. Sometimes the mountaineers would say:
"We do not do these things for money. We have fed and assisted hundreds of refugees and escaping prisoners, but never received a cent for it."
Those whom they befriended were usually penniless. We appreciated their kindness none the less because fortunate enough to be able to recompense them. They were unable to resist the argument that, when our forces came, they would need "green-backs" to purchase coffee.
Imminent Peril of Union Citizens.
Every man who gave us a meal, sheltered us in his house or barn, pointed out a refuge in the woods, or directed us one mile upon our journey, did it at the certainty, if discovered, of being imprisoned, or forced into the Rebel army, whether sick or well, and at the risk of having his house burned over his head. In many cases, discovery would have resulted in his death by shooting, or hanging in sight of his own door.
During our whole journey we entered only one house inhabited by white Unionists, which had never been plundered by Home Guards or Rebel guerrillas. Almost every loyal family had given to the Cause some of its nearest and dearest. We were told so frequently—"My father was killed in those woods;" or, "The guerrillas shot my brother in that ravine," that, finally, these tragedies made little impression upon us. The mountaineers never seemed conscious that they were doing any heroic or self-sacrificing thing. Their very sufferings
The Escape.—Wading a Mountain Stream at Midnight.The Escape.—Wading a Mountain Stream at Midnight.The Escape.—Wading a Mountain Stream at Midnight.Click for a larger image.
The Escape.—Wading a Mountain Stream at Midnight.
Click for a larger image.
had greatly intensified their love for the Union, and their faith in its ultimate triumph.
Drowsily wondering at our capacity for sleep, we dozed through the first day of the New Year, and the fifteenth of our liberty. After dark we spent two hours in the house before the log fire. The good woman had one son already escaped to the North—a fresh link which bound her mother-heart to that ideal paradise. She fed us, mended our clothing, and parted from us with the heartiest "God bless you!"
Her youngest born, a lad of eleven years, accompanied us five miles to the house of a Unionist, who received us without leaving his bed. He gave us such minute information about the faint, obscure road that we found little difficulty in keeping it.
Fording Creeks at Midnight.
Through the biting air we pressed rapidly up the narrow valley of a clear, tumbling mountain stream, whose frowning banks, several hundred feet in hight, were covered with pines and hemlocks. In twelve miles the road crossed the creek twenty-nine times. Instead of bridges were fords for horsemen and wagons, and foot-logs for pedestrians. Cold and stiff, we discovered that crossing the smooth, icy logs in the darkness was a hazardous feat. Wolfe was particularly lame, and slipped several times into the icy torrent, but managed to flounder out without much delay. He endured with great serenity all our suggestions, that even though water was his native element, he had a very eccentric taste to prefer swimming to walking, in that state of the atmosphere.
At one crossing the log was swept away. We wandered up and down the stream, which was about a hundred feet wide, but could find not even the hair which Mahomet discovered to be the bridge over the bottomless pit. But as canoes are older than ships, so legs are moreprimitive than bridges. We e'en plunged in, waist deep, and waded through, among the cakes of floating ice.
"Looped and Windowed Raggedness."
Our wardrobes were suffering quite as much as our persons. We did not carry looking-glasses, so I am not able to speak of myself; but my colleague was a subject for a painter. Any one seeing him must have been convinced that he was made up for the occasion; that his looped and windowed raggedness never could have resulted from any natural combination of circumstances. The fates seemed to decree that as "Junius" went naked into the Confederacy (leaving most of his wardrobe on deposit at the bottom of the Mississippi), he should come out of it in the same condition.
Overcoat he had none. Pantaloons had been torn to shreds and tatters by the brambles and thorn-bushes. He had a hat which was not all a hat. It was given to him, after he had lost his own in a Rebel barn, by a warm-hearted African, as a small tribute from the Intelligent Contraband to his old friend the Reliable Gentleman—by an African who felt with the most touching propriety that it would be a shame for any correspondent ofThe Tribuneto go bareheaded as long as a single negro in America was the owner of a hat! It was a white wool relic of the old-red-sandstone period, with a sugar-loaf crown, and a broad brim drawn down closely over his ears, like the bonnet of an Esquimaux.
His boots were a stupendous refutation of the report that leather was scarce among the Rebels. I understood it to be no figure of rhetoric, but the result of actual and exact measurement, which induced him to call them the "Seven-Leaguers." The small portion of his body, which was visible between the tops of his boots and the bottom of his hat, was robed in an old gray quilt of Secession proclivities; and taken for all in all, with his pale, nervous face and his remarkable costume, he looked like a cross between the Genius of Intellectuality and a Rebel bushwhacker!
Before daylight, we shiveringly tapped on the door of a house at the foot of the Blue Ridge.
"Come in," was the welcome response.
Entering, we found a woman sitting by the log fire. Beginning to introduce ourselves, she interrupted:
"O, I know all about you. You are Yankee prisoners. Your friends who passed last evening told us you were coming, and I have been sitting up all night for you. Come to the fire and dry your clothes."
Stories about the War.
For two hours we listened to her tales of the war. The history of almost every Union family was full of romance. Each unstoried mountain stream had its incidents of daring, of sagacity, and of faithfulness; and almost every green hill had been bathed in that scarlet dew from which ever springs the richest and the ripest fruit.
Concealment here was difficult; so we were taken to the house of a neighbor, who also was waiting to welcome us. He took us to his storehouse, right by the road-side.
"The Guard," said he, "searched this building last Thursday, unsuccessfully, and are hardly likely to try it again just yet."
Soon, lying near a fire upon a warm feather-bed, we wooed the drowsy god with all the success which the hungry Salisbury vermin, sticking closer than brothers, would permit.
XVI.Monday, January 2.
Climbing the Blue Ridge.
Before night the guide returned from conducting Boothby's party, and assured us that the coast wasclear. After dark, invigorated by tea and apple brandy, we followed our pilot by devious paths up the steep, fir-clad, piny slope of the Blue Ridge.
The view from the summit is beautiful and impressive; but for our weariness and anxiety, we should have enjoyed it very keenly.
A few weeks before, the Unionist now leading us had sent his little daughter of twelve years, alone, by night, fifteen miles over the mountains, to warn some escaping Union prisoners that the Guard had gained a clue to their whereabouts. They received the warning in season to find a place of safety before their pursuers came.
We were now on the west side of the Ridge. A heavy rain began to fall, and, though soaked and weary, we were glad to have our tracks obliterated, and thus be insured against pursuit.
"The labor we delight in physics pain;"
"The labor we delight in physics pain;"
but in this case the effort was so arduous that the panacea was not very effective. Thomas Starr King tells the story of a little man, who, being asked his weight, replied:
"Ordinarily, a hundred and twenty pounds; but when I'm mad, I weigh a ton!"
I think any one of our wet, blistered feet, which, at every step, sunk deep into the slush, would have counterbalanced his whole body! Like millstones we dragged them up hill after hill, and through the long valleys which stretched drearily between. Though not hungering after the flesh-pots of Egypt, we still thought, half regretfully, of our squalid Salisbury quarters, where we had at least a roof to shelter us, and a bunk of straw. But we needed no injunction to remember Lot's wife; for a pillar of salt would have represented a fabuloussum of money in the currency of the Rebels; and we had no desire to swell their scanty revenues or supply their impoverished commissary department.
Crossing the New River at Midnight.
At midnight we reached New River, two hundred and fifty yards wide. Our guide took us over, one at a time, behind him upon his horse. We were probably five hundred miles above the point where this river, as the Great Kanawha, unites with the Ohio; but it was the first stream we had found running northward, and its soft, rippling song of home and freedom was very sweet to our ears. Already our Promised Land stretched before us, and the shining river seemed a pathway of light to its hither boundary. Better than Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, this was the Jordan, flowing toward all we loved and longed for. It revived the great world of work and of life which had faded almost to fable.
At two in the morning we reached the house of a stanch Unionist, which nestled romantically in the green valley, inclosed on all sides by dark mountains.
Hospitality and Oratory Combined.
Our new friend, herculean in frame and with a heavy-tragedy voice, came out where we sat, dripping and dreary, under an old cotton-gin, and addressed us in a pompous strain, worthy of Sergeant Buzfuz:
"Gentlemen," said he, "there are, unfortunately, at my house to-night two wayfarers, who are Rebels and traitors. If they knew of your presence, it would be my inevitable and eternal ruin. Therefore, unable to extend to you such hospitalities as I could wish, I bid you welcome to all whichcanbe furnished by so poor a man as I. I will place you in my barn, which is warm, and filled with fodder. I will bring you food and apple brandy. In the morning, when these infernal scoundrels are gone, I will entertain you under my family roof. Gentlemen, I have been a Union man from thebeginning, and I shall be a Union man to the end. I had three sons; one died in a Rebel hospital; one was killed at the battle of the Wilderness, fighting (against his will) for the Southern cause; the third, thank God! is in the Union lines."
Here the father overcame the orator; and, with the conjunction of apple brandy, corn bread, and quilts, we were soon asleep in the barn.
No tongue—all eyes; be silent.Tempest.
No tongue—all eyes; be silent.Tempest.
No tongue—all eyes; be silent.
Tempest.
At nine in the morning our host awakened us.
Over Mountains and Through Ravines.
"Gentlemen, I trust you have slept well. The enemy has gone, and breakfast waits. I call you early, because I want to take you out of North Carolina into Tennessee, where I will show you a place of refuge infinitely safer than this."
For the first time since leaving Salisbury we traveled by daylight. Our guide led us deviously through fields, and up almost perpendicular ascents, where the rarefied air compelled us frequently to stop for breath.
We dragged our weary feet up one hill, down another, through ravines of almost impenetrable laurels, swinging across the streams by the snowy, pendent boughs, only to find another appalling hight rising before us. Nothing but the hope of freedom enabled us to keep on our feet. Once, when near a public road, our guide suddenly whispered.
"Hist! Drop to the ground instantly!"
Lying behind logs, we saw two or three horse-teams and sleds pass by, and heard the conversation of the drivers.
Our pilot was not agitated, for, like all the Union mountaineers, danger had been so long a part of his every-day existence, that he had no physical nervousness. But it was reported that the Guards would be out to-day, so he was very wary and vigilant. We crossed the road inthe Indian mode, walking in single file, each man treading in the footsteps of his immediate predecessor. No casual observer would have suspected that it was the track of more than one man.
At 4p.m., we entered Tennessee, which, like the passage of the New River, seemed another long stride toward home. Approaching a settlement, we went far around through the woods, persuading ourselves that we were unobserved. A mile beyond we reached a small log house, where our friend was known, and a blooming, matronly woman, with genial eyes, welcomed us.
"Come in, all. I am very glad to see you. I thought you must be Yankees when I heard of your approach, about half an hour ago."
"How did you hear?"
Mistaken for Confederate Guards.
"A good many young men are lying out in this neighborhood, and my son is one of them. He has not slept in the house for two years. He always carries his rifle. At first, I was opposed to it, but now I am glad to have him. They may murder him any day, and if they do, I at least want him to kill some of the traitors first. Nobody can approach this settlement, day or night, without being seen by some of these young men, always on the watch. The Guard have come in twice, at midnight, as fast as they could ride; but the news traveled before them, and they found the birds flown. When you appeared in sight, the boys took you for Rebels. My son and two others, lying behind logs, had their rifles drawn on you not more than three hundred yards away. They were very near shooting you, when they discovered that you had no arms, and concluded you must be the right sort of people. In the distance you look like Home Guards—part of you dressed as citizens, one in Rebeluniform, and two wearing Yankee overcoats. You are unsafe traveling a single mile through this region, without sending word beforehand who you are."
After dark we were shown to a barn, where we wrapped ourselves in quilts. During the last twenty-four hours we had journeyed twenty-five miles, equal to fifty upon level roads, and our eye-lids were very heavy.
XVIII.Wednesday, January 4.
This settlement was intensely loyal, and admirably picketed by Union women, children, and bushwhackers. We dined with the wife of a former inmate of Castle Thunder. She told us that Lafayette Jones, whose escape from that prison I have already recorded, remained in the Rebel army only a few days, deserting from it to the Union lines, and then coming back to his Tennessee home.
A Rebel Guerrilla Killed.
The Rebel guerrilla captain who originally captured him was notoriously cruel, had burned houses, murdered Union men, and abused helpless women. He took from Jones two hundred dollars in gold, promising to forward it to his family, but never did so. After reaching home, Jones sent a message to him that he must refund the money at once, or be killed wherever found. Jones finally sought him. As they met, the guerrilla drew a revolver and fired, but without wounding his antagonist. Thereupon Jones shot him dead on his own threshold. The Union people justified and applauded the deed. Jones was afterward captain in a loyal Tennessee regiment. His father had died in a Richmond dungeon, one of his brothers in an Alabama prison, and a second had been hung by the Rebels.
The woman told us that another guerrilla, peculiarly obnoxious to the Loyalists, had disappeared early inNovember. A few days before we arrived, his bones were found in the woods, with twenty-one bullet-holes through his clothing. His watch and money were still undisturbed in his pocket. Vengeance, not avarice, stimulated his destroyers.
Meeting a former Fellow-Prisoner.
Here we met another of our Castle Thunder fellow-prisoners, named Guy. The Richmond authorities knew he was a Union bushwhacker, and had strong evidence against him, which would have cost him his life if brought to trial. But he, too, under an assumed name, enlisted in the Rebel army, deserted, returned to Tennessee, and resumed his old pursuit as a hunter of men with new zeal and vigor.
He and his companion were now armed with sixteen-shooter rifles, revolvers, and bowie-knives. Guy's father and brother had both been killed by the guerrillas, and he was bitter and unsparing. If he ever fell into Rebel hands again, his life was not worth a rush-light. But he was merry and jocular as if he had never heard of the King of Terrors. I asked him how he now regarded his Richmond adventures. He replied:
"I would not take a thousand dollars in gold for the experience I had while in prison; but I would not endure it again for ten thousand."
Guy and his comrade were supposed to be "lying out," which suggested silent and stealthy movements; but on leaving us they went yelling, singing, and screaming up the valley, whooping like a whole tribe of Indians. Occasionally they fired their rifles, as if their vocal organs were not noisy enough. It was ludicrously strange deportment for hunted fugitives.
"Guy always goes through the country in that way," said the woman. "He is very reckless and fearless. The Rebels know it, and give him a wide field. He has killeda good many of them, first and last, and no doubt they will murder him, sooner or later, as they did his father."
Alarm About Rebel Cavalry.
At night, just as we were comfortably asleep in the barn, our host awakened us, saying:
"Five Rebel cavalry are reported approaching this neighborhood, with three hundred more behind them, coming over the mountains from North Carolina. I think it is true, but am not certain. I am so well known as a Union man, that, if they do come, they will search my premises thoroughly. There is another barn, much more secluded, a mile farther up the valley, where you will be safer than here, and will compromise nobody if discovered. If they arrive, you shall be informed before they can reach you."
Coleridge did not believe in ghosts, because he had seen too many of them. So we were skeptical concerning the Rebel cavalry, having heard too much of it. But we went to the other barn, and in its ample straw-loft found a North Carolina refugee, with whom we slept undisturbed. He deemed this place much safer than his home—a gratifying indication to us that the danger was growing small by degrees.
XIX.Thursday, January 5.
This morning, the good woman whose barn had sheltered us mended our tattered clothing. Her husband was a soldier in the Union service. I asked her:
"How do you live and support your family?"
"Very easily," she replied. "Last year, I did all my own housework, and weaving, spinning, and knitting, and raised over a hundred bushels of corn, with no assistance whatever except from this little girl, eleven years old. The hogs run in the woods during the summer,feeding themselves; so we are in no danger of starvation."
Boothby's company, enhanced by the two Rebel deserters from Petersburg, and a young conscript, formerly one of our prison-guards at Salisbury, here rejoined us. Our entire party, numbering ten, started again at 3p.m.
The road was over Stony Mountain, very rocky and steep. As we halted wearily upon its summit, we overlooked a great waste of mountains, intersected with green valleys of pine and fir, threaded by silver streams. Our guide assured us that, at Carter's Dépôt, one hundred and ten miles east of Knoxville, we should find Union troops. Soon after dark, to our disappointment and indignation, he declared that he must turn back without a moment's delay. His long-deferred explanation that the young wife, whom he had left at his lonely log house, was about to endure
"The pleasing punishment which women bear,"
"The pleasing punishment which women bear,"
mollified our wrath, and we bade him good-by.
A Stanch Old Unionist.
After dark we found our way, deviously, around several dwellings, to the house of an old Union man. With his wife and three bouncing daughters, he heartily welcomed us:
"I am very glad to see you; I have been looking for you these two hours."
"Why did you expect us?"
"We learned yesterday that there were ten Yankees, one in red breeches and a Rebel uniform, over the mountain. Girls, make a fire in the kitchen, and get supper for these gentlemen!"
While we discussed the meal and a great bucket of rosy apples before the roaring fire, our host—silver-haired, deep-chested, brawny-limbed, a splendid specimenof physical manhood—poured out his heart. He was devoted to the Union with a zeal passing the love of women. How intensely he hated the Rebels! How his eyes flashed and dilated as he talked of the old flag! How perfect his faith that he should live to see it again waving triumphantly on his native mountains! One of his sons had died fighting for his country, and two others were still in the Union army.
The Most Dangerous Point.
The old gentleman piloted us through the deep woods, for three miles, to a friendly house. We were now near a rendezvous of Rebel guerrillas, reported to be without conscience and without mercy. Their settlement was known through that whole region as "Little Richmond." We must pass within a quarter of a mile of them. It was feared that they might have pickets out, and the point was deemed more dangerous than any since leaving Salisbury.
Our new friend, though an invalid, promptly rose from his bed to guide us through the danger. His wife greeted us cordially, but was extremely apprehensive—darting to and from the door, and in conversation suddenly pausing to listen. When we started, she said, taking both my hands in hers:
"May God prosper you, and carry you safely through to those you love. But you must be very cautious. Less than six weeks ago, my two brothers started for the North by the same route; and when they reached Crab Orchard, the Rebel guerrillas captured them, and murdered them in cold blood."
After leading us two miles, the guide stopped, and when all came up, he whispered:
"We are approaching the worst place. Let no man speak a word. Step lightly as possible, while I keep as far ahead as you can see me. If you hear any noise, dartout of sight at once. Should I be discovered with you, it would be certain death to me. If found alone, I can tell some story about sickness in my family."
We crept softly behind him for two miles. Then, leading us through a rocky pasture into the road, he said:
"Thank God! I have brought another party of the right sort of people past Little Richmond in safety. My health is broken, and I shall not live long; but it is a great consolation to know that I have been able to help some men who love the Union made by our fathers."
Directing us to a stanch Unionist, a few miles beyond, he returned home.
At three in the morning, we reached our destination. Davis and Boothby did pioneer duty, going forward to the house, where they were received by a clamor of dogs, which made the valleys ring. After a whispered conference with the host, they returned and said:
"There is a Rebel traveler spending the night here. We are to stay in the barn until morning, when he will be gone."
The All-devouring Vermin.
We burrowed in the warm hay-mow, and vainly essayed to sleep. The all-devouring vermin by this time swarmed upon us, poisoning our blood and stimulating every nerve, as we tossed wearily until long after daylight.
XX.Friday, January 6.
At nine o'clock this morning our host came to the hay-loft and awoke us:
"My troublesome guest is gone; walk down to breakfast."
He was educated, intelligent, and had been a leader among the "Conservative" or Union people, until compelledto acquiesce, nominally, in the war. His house and family were pleasant. But while we now began to approach civilization, the Union lines steadily receded. He informed us that we would find no loyal troops east of Jonesboro, ninety-eight miles from Knoxville, and probably none east of Greenville, seventy-four miles from Knoxville.
"But," said he, "you are out of the woods for the present. You are on the border of the largest Union settlement in all the Rebel States. You may walk for twenty-four miles by daylight on the public road. Look out for strangers, Home Guards, or Rebel guerrillas; but you will find every man, woman, and child, who lives along the route, a stanch and faithful friend."
With light hearts we started down the valley. It seemed strange to travel the public road by daylight, visit houses openly, and look people in the face.
Our way was on the right bank of the Watauga, a broad, flashing stream, walled in by abrupt cliffs, covered with pines and hemlocks. A woman on horseback, with her little son on foot, accompanied us for several miles, saying:
"If you travel alone, you are in danger of being shot for Rebel guerrillas."
More Union Soldiers.
In the evening a Union man rowed us across the stream. On the left bank our eyes were gladdened by three of our boys in blue—United States soldiers at home on furlough. Seeing us in the distance, they leveled their rifles, but soon discovered that we were not foes.
Our host for the night beguiled the evening hours with stories of the war; and again we enjoyed the luxury of beds.
XXI.Saturday, January 7.
A Well-Fortified Refuge.
A friend piloted us eight miles over the rough, snowy mountains, avoiding public roads. In the afternoon, we found shelter at a white frame house, nestling among the mountains, and fronted by a natural lawn, dotted with firs.
Here, for the first time, we were entirely safe. Any possible Rebel raid must come from the south side of the river. The house was on the north bank of the stream, which was too much swollen for fording, and the only canoe within five miles was fastened on our shore. Thus fortified on front, flank, and rear, we took our ease in the pleasant, home-like farmhouse.
Near the dwelling was a great spring, of rare beauty. Within an area of twelve feet, a dozen streams, larger than one's arm, came gushing and boiling up through snow-white sand. By the aid of a great fire, and an enormous iron kettle, we boiled all our clothing, and at last vanquished the troublesome enemies which, brought from the prison, had so long disturbed our peace.
Then, bathing in the icy waters, we came out renewed, like the Syrian leper, and, in soft, clean beds, enjoyed the sweet sleep of childhood.
XXII.Sunday, January 8.
A new guide took us eight miles to a log barn in the woods. After dining among, but not upon, the husks, we started again, an old lady of sixty guiding us through the woods toward her house. Age had not withered her, nor custom staled, for she walked at a pace which made it difficult to keep in sight of her.
At dark, in the deep pines, behind her lonely dwelling, we kindled a fire, supped, and, with fifteen or twenty companions, who had joined us so noiselessly that they seemed to spring from earth, we started on.
If I have wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn.Midsummer Night's Dream.
If I have wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn.Midsummer Night's Dream.
If I have wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn.
Midsummer Night's Dream.
Dan Ellis, the Union Guide.
For many months before leaving prison, we had been familiar with the name ofDan Ellis—a famous Union guide, who, since the beginning of the war, had done nothing but conduct loyal men to our lines.
Ellis is a hero, and his life a romance. He had taken through, in all, more than four thousand persons. He had probably seen more adventure—in fights and races with the Rebels, in long journeys, sometimes bare-footed and through the snow, or swimming rivers full of floating ice—than any other person living.
He never lost but one man, who was swooped up through his own heedlessness. The party had traveled eight or ten days, living upon nothing but parched corn. Dan insisted that a man could walk twenty-five miles a day through snow upon parched corn just as well as upon any other diet—if he only thought so. I feel bound to say that I have tried it and do not think so. This person held the same opinion. He revolted against the parched-corn diet, vowing that he would go to the first house and get an honest meal, if he was captured for it. He went to the first house, obtained the meal, and was captured.
After we had traveled fifty miles, everybody said to us, "If you can only find Dan Ellis, and do just as he tells you, you will be certain to get through."
In Good Hands at Last.
Wedidfind Dan Ellis. On this Sunday night, onehundred and thirty-four miles from our lines, greatly broken down, we reached a point on the road, waited for two hours, when along came Dan Ellis, with a party of seventy men—refugees, Rebel deserters, Union soldiers returning from their homes within the enemy's lines, and escaping prisoners. About thirty of them were mounted and twenty armed.
Like most men of action, Dan was a man of few words. When our story had been told him, he said to his comrades:
"Boys, here are some gentlemen who have escaped from Salisbury, and are almost dead from the journey. They are our people. They have suffered in our Cause. They are going to their homes in our lines. We can't ride and let these men walk. Get down off your horses, and help them up."
Down they came, and up we went; and then we pressed along at a terrible pace.
In low conversation, as we rode through the darkness, I learned from Dan and his companions something of his strange, eventful history. At the outbreak of the war, he was a mechanic in East Tennessee. After once going through the mountains to the Union lines, he displayed rare capacity for woodcraft, and such vigilance, energy, and wisdom, that he fell naturally into the pursuit of a pilot.
Six or eight of his men, who had been with him from the beginning, were almost equally familiar with the routes. They lived near him, in Carter County, Tennessee, in open defiance of the Rebels. When at home, they usually slept in the woods, and never parted from their arms for a single moment.
As the Rebels would show them no mercy, they could not afford to be captured. For three years there had
Dan. Ellis.Dan. Ellis.Dan. Ellis.Click for larger image.
Dan. Ellis.
Click for larger image.
been a standing offer of five thousand dollars for Dan Ellis's head. During that period, except when within our lines, he had never permitted his Henry rifle, which would fire sixteen times without reloading, to go beyond the reach of his hand.
An Unequal Battle—Ellis's Bravery.
Once, when none of his comrades, except Lieutenant Treadaway, were with him, fourteen of the Rebels came suddenly upon them. Ellis and Treadaway dropped behind logs and began to fire their rifles. As the enemy pressed them, they fell slowly back into a forest, continuing to shoot from behind trees. The unequal skirmish lasted three hours. Several Rebels were wounded, and at last they retreated, leaving the two determined Unionists unharmed and masters of the field.
Dan usually made the trip to our lines once in three or four weeks, leading through from forty to five hundred persons. Before starting, he and his comrades would make a raid upon the Rebels in some neighboring county, take from them all the good horses they could find, and, after reaching Knoxville, sell them to the United States quartermaster.
Thus they obtained a livelihood, though nothing more. The refugees and escaping prisoners were usually penniless, and Ellis, whose sympathies flowed toward all loyal men like water, was compelled to feed them during the entire journey. He always remunerated Union citizens for provisions purchased from them.
To-night was so cold, that our sore, lame joints would hardly support us upon our horses. Dan's rapid marching was the chief secret of his success. He seemed determined to keep at least one day ahead of all Rebel pursuers.
Now that we were safe in his hands, I accompanied the party mechanically, with no further questions oranxiety about routes; but I chanced to hear Treadaway ask him:
"Don't you suppose the Nolechucky is too high for us to ford?"
"Very likely," replied Dan; "we will stop and inquire of Barnet."
Upon the mule which I rode, a sack of corn served for a saddle. I was not accomplished in the peculiar gymnastics required to sit easily upon it and keep it in place.
Lost!—A Perilous Blunder.
Thirsty and feverish, I stopped at the crossing of Rock Creek for a draught of water and to adjust the corn-sack. Attempting to remount, I was as stiff and awkward as an octogenarian, and my restive mule would not stand for a moment. I finally succeeded in climbing upon his back two or three minutes after the last horseman disappeared up the bank.
We had been traveling across forests, over hills, through swamps, without regard to thoroughfares; but I rode carelessly on, supposing that my mule's instinct would keep him on the fresh scent of the cavalcade. When we had jogged along for ten minutes, awakening from a little reverie, I listened vainly to hear the footfalls of the horses. All was silent. I dismounted, and examined the half-frozen road, but no hoof-marks could be seen upon it.
I was lost! It might mean recapture—it might mean reimprisonment and death, for the terms were nearly synonymous. I was ignorant about the roads, and whether I was in a Union or Rebel settlement.
To search for that noiseless, stealthy party would be useless; so I rode back to the creek, tied my mule to a laurel in the dense thicket, and sat down upon a log, pondering on my stupid heedlessness, which seemedlikely to meet its just reward. I remembered that Davis owed his original capture to a mule, and wondered if the same cause was about to produce for me a like result.
Mentally anathematizing my long-eared brute, I gave him a part of the corn, and threw myself down behind a log, directly beside the road. This would enable me to hear the horse's feet of any one who might return for me. In a few minutes I was sound asleep.
When awakened by the cold, my watch told me that it was three o'clock. Running to and fro in the thicket until my blood was warmed, I resumed my position behind the log, and slept until daylight was gleaming through the forest.