Gets his pistol back; Road full of Yankees; Goes forty miles one day; Such a man as I have never seen; Not a prayer meeting man; Reaches old Uncle McCullough's; Like one in a dream; You people who don't believe in prayer; Mind made up not to remain.
I STAYED that night with a man who lived on the bank of the river, and found out that he had been with Jeff Thompson, the Confederate Cavalry General, but had been caught and made to take the oath of allegience. Such men, I afterwards discovered, were called "galvanized" men. Before I left the house next morning I was treated to the sight of a steamboat, loaded with Federal soldiers, going down the river. They were cheered lustily by the negroes, but the white man and I observed them in silence. Of course, I told him nothing about my intentions, except that I was going to Greenville, Mo. Thinking it possible that it might be difficult to get a letter back to my friends later on, I wanted to find a suitable place to write. This I discovered by questioning an old negro. He said he belonged to "Marse John Oliver. Young Marse John was with Jeff Thompson and Miss Mary was at home." I concluded I could confide in the mother after that information, so I approached the house and introduced myself to the lady, telling her that I was going South and wanted to write some letters back to my friends. She kindly showed me to a back room and gave me stationery. I wrote to my friends in Wisconsin, begging their pardon for deceiving them, and asking them to redeem my pistol, so that the man at Calumet might not lose anything. This they did and
THREE YEARS AFTER THEY SENT THE PISTOL TO ME,
and I have it now as a souvenir of those days.
The lady said: "I would be very glad for you to spend the afternoon and night with us, so that my husband might see you; but it would be dangerous for you and for us. The Home Guards are roaming through the country all the time, and if you should be found here, they might have my husband arrested and carried off to prison, on the charge of harboring a rebel, or they might burn our property down. There is no telling what they would do. I am very uneasy for you, lest they shall meet you and kill you." These Home Guards, as I afterwards found out, were irresponsible soldiers, most of them Germans, who were but little more than marauders, and I afterwards found that we had some of the same sort among the Confederates. I had but little apprehension of trouble, as I was to go to places where there were Federal garrisons. I went through the first town late in the afternoon with a "galvanized" man whom I happened to meet just before reaching the village. I saw the soldiers all around on the streets, drinking and carousing. A little further along, I spent the night in a home where an old gentleman and his family were living, taking care of the plantation and slaves belonging to a young man who was with Jeff Thompson. Of course they told me very much about the war, but I said nothing to them further than that I was going to Greenville. The next morning when I came down stairs, I found the girls on the back veranda. Being of a confiding disposition, especially with pretty girls, I told them in a few words that I was going South to the Confederate Army. Just then breakfast was announced. I sat down to the table with my back towards the front door, and the girls sat on the opposite side of the table, in full view of the front door and the public road. As I was chatting with them, casting sheep's eyes the while, I noticed one of them suddenly change color, as she gazed intently towards the front door, and she remarked:
"THE ROAD IS FULL OF YANKEES."
Immediately the frogs leaped into my throat, and I was wondering what I would say to the fellows when they came in. One girl bounded towards the door and stood in it. It was the days of the hoop-skirt and she just about filled the door, so that nobody might see past her. The other girl begged me to run up stairs and hide, which I was not at all inclined to do. The old people were paralyzed, because they did not understand it at all. I hastily informed them of what I had told the girls. That is one time I didn't know what I ate for breakfast. It might have been knives and forks and salt-cellars for all I knew, but I kept eating. The girl in the door turned her head and said: "They are going into the lot." The old gentleman said: "I don't reckon they are coming in the house at all; they left some wounded horses with me several weeks ago and told me yesterday they were going to send after them." It was a great relief to hear that, but I could not understand why a whole regiment should have to come after a few horses. Presently the girl said: "They are going off," and I felt a pressure removed, equal to five hundred bales of cotton. I felt as light as a feather and if I had had wings, I certainly would have used them.
Each of these two nights, I spent twenty-five cents, and that carried with it a lunch for the next day. As speedily as possible I got away and
WENT FORTY-FIVE MILES THAT DAY.
Mind you, I did not say I walked it; when I was dead sure nobody saw me, I ran. I saw very few people that day. The Home Guards had done their work well, as the burned houses indicated on every side.
Late that afternoon I was told that I was approaching another village, but I need not go by the village if I did not wish to; I could turn to the left and cross the creek lower down, and both roads led to Greenville. I had no business in the town, so I took the left hand. Just before night I came to a deep, narrow, ugly looking little stream that had no bridge across it. Nobody had been fording it. I looked in vain for a log on which to cross. I didn't want to go up the stream, for that would carry me up into the town. I found a pole, that probably nothing but a squirrel had ever crossed on, but I ventured to straddle it, and then I inched myself across. A kodak could have gotten a picture worth while then. Getting on the other side, I went up to the most desolate looking home I had ever seen. Not a sign of life, except now and then the cackle of a chicken flying to the roost. I knocked at the front door but no response coming, like a tramp, I went around to the kitchen. There was an old lady, standing before a great, old-fashioned fire place cooking supper. It seemed to me I never smelt the frying of bacon that was so delicious in my life. I said: "I am traveling and am very tired; I want to stay all night with you, please ma'am." She invited me in saying: "Sit down by the fire here; when my son comes, maybe he will let you stay. I don't know whether he will or not, he is mighty curios." The kitchen had a dirt floor. She put corn bread and fried meat on the table and invited me to put my stool up to the table and eat, which I was not slow to do. Just as I began eating,
THERE CAME IN SUCH A MAN AS I HAVE NEVER SEEN BEFORE OR SINCE
I judge he was about twenty-one or twenty-two years old, with immense jaw bones, high cheek bones, just a little space between his eyebrows and hair, overhanging eyebrows and way-back little beady eyes. He scowled at me, then said to the old lady: "Who's this you've got here?" I looked up and said: "Good evening sir, your mother was kind enough to invite me in. I want to stay all night with you and I hope you can accommodate me." He took his old slouch hat off, threw it on the floor, sat down and went to eating. Not a word passed. That is another time I don't know what I ate. I eyed him and he eyed me, but I mostly eyed the grub. He got through before I did, picked up his hat and shot out the door without a word. He had been gone not ten minutes when the biggest rain I ever heard, began to fall and I judge it fell through the whole night. The old lady showed me to a bed and I retired, wondering whether I would wake up dead or alive, feeling pretty certain that I would wake up dead, for I was sure that boy was bent on mischief. Next morning, I had my breakfast by candle-light, paid the old lady a quarter, and said to her: "I am completely broken down, my feet are blistered and swollen, I could hardly get my shoes on this morning, I have no money. Is there anybody living near here, on whom it would not be an imposition, who might let me rest until Monday morning?" The reply was: "I have a son about three miles down the road. He is plenty able to do it if he would, but he is curioser than that boy you saw here last night." When I got out the front gate, I looked down on that insignificant little old creek, and there was a stream of water big enough to float the navy of the United States. It did not dawn on me then, but later I felt sure that boy crossed the creek and went to town to report me to the Yankees and that rain and overflow prevented his designs from being carried out. Doubtless the stream remained up the greater part of the day. I trudged along, dragging my feet as best I could, and after so long a time, reached the home of this "curioser" son. He came out and stood on the stoop to listen to my yarn about going to Greenville.
HE WAS NOT A PRAYER-MEETING MAN
I judged from his language. He said: "Do you think I am a fool? You are nothing but a little old rebel or some little old boy going to the rebels. I hope to God the Home Guards will find you today and kill you. If I see any of them I am going to put them on your track." Of course I had no further argument with that man. I went off a few hundred yards, felt of my knees to see if there were any joints there or not, for up to that time I had not discovered them that day. How mad I did get! I gritted my teeth, shook my fist, bowed my neck, and shot out, going thirty-five miles. I never saw a soul all day.
The remains of burned homes I could see; now and then a place was spared and evidently the people were about, but out of sight. I was almost in despair of reaching a place to spend the night, when just before dark, I looked down and saw one of the most beautiful sights I ever beheld. It was an old country home, the doors wide open, good fires burning, the negro quarters stretching out and fires burning brightly in the cabins. I heard the lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, the cackling of poultry, all indicating a place of plenty. I found it to be an old lady's home, whose son and grand son had been with Jeff Thompson captured and galvanized. They were so outspoken, I made bold that night to tell them who I was and where I was going. They said: "It is impossible for you to go any further until Caster river goes down. As the road runs, it crosses the river three times. There is a possibility of your going far up the river and getting a "galvanized" man to put you across in a boat, and at another place getting a widow woman to send you across on horseback and then
REACHING OLD 'UNCLE McCULLOUGH'S,'
but you ought not to undertake it. Stay with us until Monday morning at least." The old lady did not hear this conversation. The boys were off early the next morning to their work, confident that I was going to remain. I concluded the mother ought to be consulted, and so I ventured to say, as she was washing the dishes: "The boys said that it would be all right for me to remain and rest here until Monday morning. I suppose it will be all right with you?" She said "y-e-s, I reckin so." I saw at once that I was not welcome. I thought about it a little while and presently returned and said: "I believe, on reflection, if you will fix me up a lunch, I will go on." She did so without any protest. "How much do I owe you?" I asked. "Half a dollar," was the reply. It was the first time anybody suggested a price like that and I had only a quarter left. I took out the quarter and said: "This is as near as I can come to paying it." I fully expected the old soul to say "keep it," but, bless your life, she took it, saying: "That's lots better than a heap of them do; they come here and bring their horses and spend a week and don't say turkey about money."
So I made the trip, after many adventures, falling into the overflow a time or two, and reached "Uncle McCullough's" just at night fall. Providence was leading me, I believe. Had I carried out my plans to remain until Monday morning, that stream at the village would have gone down and the Yankees doubtless would have found me there, then I would have been done for.
So much for my antipathy to staying where I am not welcome. It served me in good turn on that occasion as it has on many another.
"Uncle McCullough" was an uncle of Gen. Ben McCullough, who was distinguishing himself at this time as a Confederate General. As I stood in the door and looked at the old patriarch, standing before a large fire, in an old-fashioned fireplace,
I FELT LIKE ONE IN A DREAM.
He was the same height and same complexion as my own uncle, Richard Bryan, with whom I had lived when a boy at Pleasant Hill in Dallas county. The similarity of the house, the cedar trees in front and the further coincidence of both being class-leaders in the Methodist church—I was almost dazed that night as I thought about it. I said to the old gentleman: "I am traveling, I have no money, and I want to stay all night, please sir." The response from his old warm heart came immediately: "Why come in, my son, of course you can stay all night, money don't make any difference here. You seem to be wet, you must have some dry clothes," with that he took me into another room and dressed me up in his best, wrung out my clothes and hung them before the fire to dry. He took me into a kitchen, with a dirt floor, identical with "Uncle Dick's" home when I was a boy, and introduced me to a dear old soul who was the very image of old "Aunt Nancy." After supper I opened my heart to him: "I have been saying I was going to Greenville. I don't know anything about Greenville, or care anything about it; I want to go South and join the Confederate army." The old man said: "Well, my son, you are dangerously near Greenville, only twelve miles; the Yankees were out here today and may be out here tonight. I don't know what I will do with you. It is too cold for you to go out to the fodder-loft, so I am going to put you in bed and pray the Lord to protect you."
YOU PEOPLE, WHO DON'T BELIEVE IN PRAYER:
The boy I am telling you about was not very religious, but when the old patriarch told him he was going to pray for him, when he lay down on that bed, he felt as secure as if an army of soldiers had been around him.
We ate breakfast by candle-light, and just about sun-up we were climbing the hill back of his garden. When I reached the top, I saw stretched out for miles Caster river bottom, overflowing everything. The old man said: "Now, my son, you will see nobody today. You will find no road, except this path. You follow this trail right down this ridge and you will come to Ira Abernathy's. There you will have to stop. It is folly to try to go any further until the overflow goes down. Nobody will ever find you there. Ira is a good Methodist; he has been galvanized. You tell him that Uncle McCullough sent you there and said for him to take care of you until the river goes down, it will be all right." I sauntered along that day, one of the prettiest Sundays I ever saw. Deer, turkeys and squirrels were seen on every side. Late in the afternoon, I reached the end of my journey and delivered "Uncle McCullough's" message. When I was through, I saw a face that reminded me exactly of the faces of those Alabamians in Chicago at Camp Douglas. I saw through it instantly. Ira had conscientious regard for his oath. If he kept me there and it was found out, it would go hard with him. Before I went to bed, my
MIND WAS MADE UP NOT TO REMAIN.
I found out from him it was fourteen miles to Bloomfield where the Confederates were, about nine miles was overflowed, that the depth would not be above my waist, except at the last. Duck Creek was deep and dangerous, that I would pass only one house and that was just before I reached Duck creek.
So next morning I started, and in five minutes I was knee deep in water. I could tell the way the road ran by watching the trees, so I kept just on the outside of the edge in the woods. Before a great while I came to a slough which seemed to be dangerous, and on sounding it I found that here was one place that my friend had certainly forgotten; it was very much over my head. I turned to find a log to cross it, which I successfully walked, but on going out on the other side on a limb, the limb broke and I fell into the water. Remember this was March, and it was in Missouri, and you can imagine that I was not very comfortable. You can see something of the happy-go-lucky boy, when I tell you that out there, half a mile from the road, wet as a drowned rat and water all around me, I took out my knife and stood for half an hour by the side of a smooth beech tree, and carved my name: "W. B. Crumpton, Pleasant Hill, Ala." It is there to this day, if the forests have not been destroyed.
I waded along throughout the day and late that afternoon I passed the house on my right, the only dry land I had seen. Beyond the house a slough ran up from the overflow into a corn field. The fence was built up to each end of a log across the slough and rails were stuck in above the logs as a sort of water fence. Behind these rails on the log I was making my way across, when I heard a corn stalk crack over in the field. Looking in that direction I saw a Yankee, in full uniform, with a gun on his shoulder. How those frogs did leap into my throat. What was I to do? I did not dare to dodge; in that case, I could never have explained it if he had seen me. If I should go on the road, he would probably see me, so I eased myself off the end of the log and walked straight away from him into the overflow. I had no idea where I was going, only I knew I was going away from him. I was feeling for bullets in my back all the time, but I am sure that he did not see me. If he had, he would have killed me and have thrown my body in the creek. Now see how Providence leads! If I had followed the road and escaped his eye, I would have come to the creek, with no possible chance of crossing. Naturally I would have turned up the creek, never would have dreamed of going down into the overflow. As it turned out, I came to a raft just in the creek. It had broken loose, I suppose, from a mill above and had lodged there. By wading in, waist deep, I climbed on it, but found I was still some distance from the bank on the other side. I had not looked around since I left the Yankee, so standing on the raft I eased myself around and saw no one. When I measured the water on the other side I found it too deep for me to wade and I couldn't swim a lick. I reached around in the water, got hold of a loose sassafras pole, floated it around, stuck it in the bank on the other side, and undertook to walk it and it partially under water. Of course it wobbled; I went down head and ears. Coming up fortunately I grasped my bundle in one hand and my cap in the other, and found myself chin deep in the water. I waded out on the other side, which seemed to me "the bank of sweet deliverance." I had been told that I would be on the side of the Confederates when I got there. I walked briskly up to the top of the hill and looked around to see if there were any signs of camp-fires anywhere, indicating the presence of the Yankee forces. I supposed that the man I saw in the bottom was on picket. Seeing no signs of camp, I shot down the hill as fast as I could run. An old man seeing me shouted: "Hello, there." I replied: "Hello, yourself." He said: "Stop and give me the news." I said: "I have no news." He yelled again: "Have you seed any soldiers." I replied: "Yes, I saw one back there in the river bottom." He said: "Yes, that's Ike Reader, I heard he was home 'tother day; but stop and give me some news." I said: "No, I haven't time," and on I rushed. I won't say I went the remaining five miles in three-quarters of an hour, but I went it in a very short time. The idea of being caught almost within sight of the rebel lines possessed me and it put wings on my feet. When I reached the borders of the village just about night fall, there was a man standing, as if he were waiting for me, and when I told him my story, he said: "Come right along up to Capt. Miller's home, and you will be welcome." I found that the Captain owned a steamboat on the St. Francis river, and I guess I could have gotten passage if I had asked for it, but I never thought of it. I was given dry clothes, treated most tenderly, and the next morning at breakfast was told that the rebel scouts were in town.
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