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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Young man, it can never be done."

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

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

Some one interrupted to say, laughingly:

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

And his own daughter chimed in:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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