CHAPTER XXII. CRUELTY OF GENERAL LEDBETTER--ANOTHER NARROW ESCAPE--ORDERED TO CUMBERLAND GAP--A WEARISOME JOURNEY--ARRIVED AT THE GAP--THE STOLEN LETTER--ALONE IN THE DARKNESS--THE NORTH STAR--DAY DAWN.

Most of the time in Knoxville I was sick and confined to the house, under the kind care of Mrs. Craig's family. Our company of Maryland Artillery, after a time, had been ordered away to Cumberland Gap, where they were to manage, if necessary, one or two old iron cannon that had been secured somewhere for them. Part of the refugees were left at Knoxville as part of the guard at Parson Brownlow's house. For this duty those were selected who had been sick, or who were thought to be "inefficient" for active field duty. I was among the number so detailed, because I certainly was the most "inefficient" Rebel soldier you ever saw or read about.

It will be remembered that in the opening chapter, while I was in Washington before the war began, I was accidentally, or, perhaps, providentially, introduced to Senator Andy Johnson through one of Senator Wigfall's Comanche Indian breaks in the Senate.

I flatter myself that the evidence I gave then—before Mr. Lincoln was inaugurated—shows that the great conspiracy was going on while the conspirators themselves were yet in the service of the Government, and under oath to support the same—therefore it was a "conspiracy."

This acquaintance with Mr. Johnson was recalled one day while in East Tennessee.

Mr. Craig said something one day about some letters that Mr. Johnson was charged with having written to some Abolitionist in Boston, proposing, or, in some way that I do not exactly recall, admitting that, for a certain large sum of money, he (Johnson) would use his influence in favor of the Union.

If Mr. Craig had any opinion as to the truth or falsity of the matter, he was careful not to let me learn it.

At the first opportunity, in order to get an opinion from a man who was not at all slow in furnishing that cheap article, in season and out of season, I interviewed Mr. Brownlow about the Johnson bribery to bring him out.

It brought the Parson out, and for a moment or two the air was thick with such elegant epithets as, "Hell-deserving scoundrels, white-livered villains," etc.

"I've not been on speaking terms with Johnson for thirty years, but I know it's a lie."

He was cautioned by his wife not to give expression to his views so freely. When I reminded them that the matter was public talk, and even printed throughout the South, the old fellow broke out in a new place:

"Oh yes, I know the Postmaster at Knoxville delivered the letters addressed to Johnson to a certain party here who is known to be in the employ of Wigfall of Texas."

That was enough for me. I was prepared to believe that Wigfall and his crowd would stoop to forgery, or anything else, to do a Southern Union man an injury. Wigfall was especially vindictive towards Johnson, as will be remembered.

If Brownlow had not been talking in the same strain to everybody about his Union sentiments, even while he was a prisoner, I should have felt from his free, outspoken manner toward me, every time I met him, that, by some instinct, he knew of my true character as a Union Spy who was about to return North, and would carry his messages home. I have often thought that Mr. Brownlow did divine my true character.

In this forged letter matter, if I am not greatly mistaken, Mr. Brownlow connected one of the present Senators from Tennessee, who was then Governor of the State. The Parson, in his odd way, had a name for everybody: Governor Isham Harris, was Eye-Sham Harris. Everytime I have looked at Senator Harris since he has been in Washington, and I have seen him almost daily, I have had this queer expression brought to my mind.

Rebel troops were being concentrated at Knoxville by railroad, to be marched thence to Cumberland and other gaps in the mountains. Something was up. Those who were on the Kentucky side about this time will know more about what caused the commotion than I who was on the inside and could only "guess," as the Yankees say.

The General in command of the forces in East Tennessee at the time was E. Kirby Smith. He was, I believe, a distant relative of mine.

Our Brigadier, and immediate commander, was General Ledbetter, a native of Maine, one of the meanest, most tyrannical and brutal men I have ever heard of, in either the Rebel or the Union Armies, or any place else. He had been an officer in the Regular Army before the War; and, as Parson Brownlow put it, "he had married a lot of niggers in the South." The Parson made this observation in the presence of his wife and the lady visitors who had accompanied me to the house one afternoon; though I did not exactly understand the drift of the expression at the time, I refrained from pressing the conversation just then. I learned afterward that he simply meant that Captain Ledbetter had married an Alabama lady, who owned sixteen slaves.

This General Ledbetter, from the State of Maine, was the willing tool selected by the Rebel officials to punish and abuse the Unionists—very much as Wirz was permitted to do at Andersonville. If I write harshly of this officer it will be accepted as an excuse from me to explain that I saw him do a great many mean acts, but that which turned my stomach worst were his roughly-spoken words to an old Unionist bridge-burner, a man with bushy, grey hair, who was at the time shrinking and cowering in a corner, looking at me with his frightened eyes like a crazy man at bay. His distress was being caused by the dreadful shrieks of his son, at that moment on the scaffold, to which the old father was led in a few moments.

"Get up here, you damned old traitor," while he deliberately tied the rope around the trembling old man's neck.

It was a horrible, horrible sight—one that I shall never cease to remember. I wish it were possible for me to efface it from my memory.

After the delightful evening at the Craig's, part of which I have tried to describe here, because there was a short, sweet interview at the garden gate after most of the guests had retired, in which the readers are not at all interested, I went to bed, determined in my own mind that in the morning I should make the final break for home. I do not remember now whether I dreamed of the girl I was to leave behind me there, or that my visions were of "Home, sweet home." Of course, it was cruel to be obliged to tear myself away from them so ruthlessly, just when it was becoming interesting, but I consoled myself with the reflection that I had survived these heart-troubles before—several times.

In the first place I had deliberately separated from my really and truly girl at my own home, when I joined Patterson's army in Pennsylvania, but I had succeeded in finding another, in dark-eyed Capitola, at Richmond, who in turn had been almost forgotten, in the new-found treasure at Knoxville, from whom I was now to be estranged by the fortunes of war—perhaps forever. It was now time to return to the first love again; and that's the way it was "evolved" with me right along. I always managed to have a girl, to keep me from attending to business, and to get me into trouble, whether I was in the Rebel or Union armies, or lines.

I was being "recuperated" so pleasantly, that I enjoyed playing off sick after I felt strong and active enough to have undertaken to walk right through Tennessee and Kentucky to my home.

The greater part of our company being at Cumberland Gap, Captain Latrobe was somewhere near Knoxville with General Ledbetter. I can not definitely recall exactly how it was—only that in order to reach him, to report for duty, it was necessary for me to go out of town some distance, where I found him in a camp at Ledbetter's headquarters.

I was a little out of favor with the Captain about this time. His greeting was not calculated to make me feel exactly comfortable.

"You are never on hand when wanted, but eternally scouting around some private houses, sick."

When I told him that I was now ready and anxious to join the company at the Gap, he took my breath away by saying:

"You will be no use there."

Then, as if remembering something that he had forgotten, he put his hand in his pocket, drawing out a package of letters, and as he fumbled them over, said:

"Lieutenant Claiborne writes me something hereabout wanting you to go back to Richmond."

Luckily for me, he wasn't able to put his hand on the right letter at that moment, which gave me a little time to gather myself up, which I did with an ease that astonished myself afterward when I had a chance to laugh in my sleeve, as I thought to myself how perfectly natural it was becoming for me to tell a lie on so short notice. I said at once in reply, as if by inspiration:

"Oh, Captain, that's probably those fellows I owe some money to, who want to get me into trouble."

He seemed to be satisfied with this explanation, and to my great relief, he put away the letters.

Just what the letters from Richmond had to say about me I am unable to say, because I did not press the inquiry at that time. I left the Captain soon after the conversation (some twenty-five years ago) and have not had the pleasure of meeting him since. I had very decided impressions on the subject at that time, however, which were to the startling effect that some of those Texas fellows, whom I had run against in their camp near Richmond, not satisfied with my bluff reception of their overtures, had been hunting me up at our old camp. Either that, or Lieutenant Claiborne had met with the Texas Doctor at Capitola's, where my double character would most likely have been discussed among them. In this one particular I should have preferred that Capitola had so far forgotten me as not to have mentioned my name again.

You may imagine how eager I was for the opportunity to change the subject with the Captain, which seemed to present itself with my remark to him. He replied in what was intended to be rather a severe lecture on what he termed my "fast and loose" way of carrying things on. I took his medicine quite meekly, and talked back only in a tone of sorrow and humiliation, taking good care to get in all sorts of rash promises to do better service for Maryland and the Confederacy, if he would only give me a chance by allowing me to go to the front.

He was disposed to be skeptical, and I write down here Captain Latrobe's exact words, spoken to me that morning in answer to my earnest appeal to be permitted to join the company at the Gap:

"Well, Wilmore, you are no use here, and I don't believe you will be up there, but I'll see what I can do with you."

He turned to leave, directing that I should "hold on here a while," as he limped off toward General Ledbetter's headquarters. I felt sure that he had gone there to consult with his superior officer about some disposition of myself; and I strongly suspected that the hinted-at requisition for me from Richmond had come through the military channels.

Perhaps the reader may be able to imagine my thoughts and fears, or share my feelings for the few moments that I sat on the edge of the porch of the old log house that morning, waiting for the verdict, as it were. I rather incline to the belief though, that it is only those who have been under a sentence of death, or who are awaiting the result of a last appeal for a pardon, who will be competent to sympathize with me, or one who has been in such a plight.

I was a long way from home, all alone—in a strange, I might say, a foreign land—among enemies; at liberty, but really with a rope around my neck; a single misstep, or word, a chance recognition, was all that was needed to spring the trap, and my career was ended ingloriously right there.

I was filled, too, on this bright and beautiful morning with the bright hope and prospect of soon getting home; in fact, I was starting out homeward bound at this time; my reaching there depended in one sense upon the will of this Captain, who could have put me in arrest and confinement and, at least, have delayed my chances, or he could give me the orders, that would admit of my easy escape.

The moments seemed like hours until the Captain made his appearance at the log-cabin door, where he stood for a few moments talking to an officer on General Ledbetter's staff. I felt sure that I was the subject of their conversation, but like most persons who feel this way when their consciences trouble them, I was mistaken.

Coming up to me, the Captain said, in a cheerful tone, as compared with the first remark to me:

"Corporal, could you find the Gap, if we—" so eager and thankful was I, I abruptly interrupted him to say: "Oh yes, I can easily do that."

"Well, it's forty miles from here, over a most God-forsaken mountain path."

I replied that I was used to the mountains and would easily find the place.

"We want to send some papers up there for signatures. I am here at headquarters to-day to get our Muster Roll fixed up, and find that I have to send them back again. We were going to get a couple of the natives to do the traveling, but, if you think you can get there, we will get you a horse and start you off right away."

The Captain's companion, the staff officer, seemed to be satisfied with my ability to undertake the journey, while the Captain himself was rather pleased to see me show some enthusiasm, or a disposition to "do something," as he put it.

He didn't understand the motive at the time, but I reckon he appreciated the feeling a little later on.

So it was arranged, to my great delight, that I should start at once, as the roll of papers had been waiting for a chance messenger. The staff officer went to see some one in the rear about a horse. I was invited to follow them into the stable. A reliable old mountain climber was pointed out as the best thing for the trip. The details of the mount was left to the stable boss and myself.

He told me she was used as a pack horse, for the staff officers: admitted that she might be old, but insisted that the climber was reliable.

I wasn't very particular—anything for a horse, a kingdom, or two kingdoms, so it would "tote" me up the mountain. I would have saddled up right away, but the old farmer insisted on feeding, while we hunted around for a saddle and other tools. A bag was filled with oats, a haversack stuffed with one day's rations for me, and I was ready to charge on the Yankees. Indeed, the old nag was choked off on her feed, so eager was I to get away. I got aboard at the stable door, found the old saddle-stirrups a mile too long for my short legs, and while the old fellow adjusted them, he laughingly said:

"Why, you go on jist like a boy."

I was a boy, and I was going home; but I was old enough to prevent older heads from finding out just how old I was.

I rode around to the front, dismounted gayly, and reported to the Captain that I was ready. Then began another trouble. I received more "orders" and "directions" in the next half hour than my wild head could contain, which resulted in my going off at last without explicit directions as to the route I was to take.

The Captain gave me some letters for Lieutenant Elkton, who was in command of our detachment at the Gap, which he said I was to deliver personally. I assented cheerfully to all the instructions, but when I had gotten off some time, and had cooled down a little, and had time to reflect, I concluded that I had better not be in a hurry to deliver that letter to our commanding officer. I "preserved" it carefully, however, so that it will be made public here for the first time. In addition to the numerous specifications that may be charged against me, I added that of robbing the Confederate mail.

As I look back over this mountain path, as it appeared to me then and remains in my memory, I wonder how it is that I ever got through with the journey alone so easily and safely.

I am not going to attempt a description of the wonderful mountain scenery of East Tennessee. That has been done so well and so often that any who may read this will have seen the well-written accounts which appear in the magazines every now and then, or, perhaps, more elaborately done in numerous war stories, as well as in the later writings of Charles Egbert Craddock and Frances Hodgson Burnett. Besides, every man of the Western armies has hoofed it over the same old road I traveled that day, carrying with him a goodly assortment of family groceries and "forty rounds," so that the impression on their minds will last as long as life remains, being as indelibly fixed as the everlasting hills themselves.

I can see nothing but the great mountains, on each side of an awfully rocky road, that seemed to me then to have been simply the dried-out beds of some streams that had refused to run to supply the Rebels with water. On every side of me, as I traveled along over these mountain roads, was the dense growth of interminable laurel thickets.

The country is, of course, somewhat diversified in mountain and plain, but the general impression left with me is, that it was so much more mountain than plain that there was hardly enough plain for a wagon-road.

After I had gotten some distance away, and was driving ahead as fast as the old horse would navigate over the rocky road, houses and farms began to grow smaller and beautifully less each mile. Every now and then we would plunge into a clearing, and find somewhere in a field of stumps a house—one of the small farmhouses where the roofs extend down and out over the front far enough to make a covering for a porch. On this porch one could almost always see some pumpkins rolled up in a corner, a saddle would be astride of the rough porch railing, a few dried provisions hung in the roof rafters overhead; one could always expect to find the lady of the house standing in the front door as he passed, and she was generally broad enough to fill the narrow space, so that only one or two heads would have room to peep out beside her, like young chickens under the old hen's wings. I generally hunted the well at almost every house we came to, when I took great cooling drinks of water from a gourd dipper.

These were the houses of the East Tennessee mountaineers. To describe one will answer for all. At the time of my travel among them, most of the men folks were away from home, either hiding among the rocks and gorges of the mountains from their persecutors, or, perhaps, having crossed the mountain, where they joined the Union Army, hoping soon to return to their homes as soldiers of the Government. There were six of these refugee Tennessee regiments as early as 1861-'62 in this part of the State, composed entirely of genuine, bona fide, Unionist refugees. I would like to record a comparison here with the refugees from Maryland in the Confederate Army at this time, both as to number and character.

I had left headquarters so late in the day that it was too much for me to make the Gap the same night with that horse, over these roads. When I started out, though, I intended to do this or burst; but on toward evening, after several hours of rough riding, I began to find the road getting so blind, and the houses were becoming so scarce, that I feared getting lost in the mountain if night should overtake me beyond the settlement.

So, early in the evening, when I reached the ford or crossing of a stream, the name of which I cannot now recall, I pulled up in front of a large house—for that country—and asked for a night's shelter. My impression is that this was a sort of stopping place or the last relay house on the southern side of the Gap. I found accommodation for both man and beast, and enjoyed a pleasant evening with the two old people on their front porch. I took it for granted that they were Unionists, though they had little to say on that subject, but they both were so well pleased with my way of talking, and of the encouraging news for a Rebel soldier to bring, that I think the old woman exerted herself to make the biscuit extra light, as she put enough salaratus in them to color the whole batch of them with yellow spots.

I was put to sleep in an attic room, and very early the next morning I was awake and dressed for the last ride. The old man had taken good care of the old horse during the night, feeding her on fodder, I reckon. When I got out from breakfast I found her tied to a tree down by the water. I mounted gayly. The old fellow gave me explicit directions as to the road to the Gap, which, he said, was in sight from the top of the hills. I bade him "Good-by," promising to pay the bill on my return. I hadn't a cent of money—besides, it was customary for the soldiers to live off the Unionists—so the old man was not much disappointed at not getting a fee, but I shall feel as if I owe them a dollar with interest for twenty-five years.

I believe I rather rushed the old hoss for awhile that morning, because I was feeling so good over the prospect of getting away at last.

Sure enough, I could see the Gap through a break in the trees and brush from the next hill-top, as the old man had said. I was surprised because it was so close to me, and disappointed in its appearance, as I had expected, from all that I had heard and read of Cumberland Gap, to find a great gorge breaking abruptly through the mountains.

On the southern, or more strictly speaking, the eastern side of the approach to Cumberland Gap, the ascent up the mountain is so gradual that one is disappointed until the summit or highest point is reached, from which a view is to be had down into Kentucky. It is then, only, that the grand beauty of the historic old place is realized. As I rode closer I met signs of military occupation—there were a lot of horses down the road at a black-smith shop waiting to be shod—a couple of soldiers in gray had them in charge; further on was a farmhouse, on the porch of which two officers in loose uniforms were sitting smoking pipes. I forged ahead, without being stopped by anybody, or stopping of my own accord until I was almost up to the very entrance to the Gap itself, when I met with a careless sort of challenge, given by a soldier, or officer without arms. It was only necessary to offer my papers and explain my business, to be told to go ahead, with directions as to where I should find our Battery.

I found our fellows were in a camp—or cabins—some little distance inside of the real Gap; on that side there seems to be two gaps, or, more plainly speaking, it seemed to me from a distance as a double gap, neither of which seemed very deep; indeed, the top of the mountain peaks on each side of the road that curved around between the two highest points did not strike me then as deserving the great name and celebrity they had obtained.

When I found the Lieutenant and delivered my papers to him, I received from the boys something of that greeting which is always accorded to a visitor who brings a pay roll or any papers or mail. Lanyard was there, the sailor recruit from Norfolk, as was also my old Richmond friend, the Colonel; we three had some hearty hand-shaking and cordial greetings. The Colonel, who was really the Sergeant, could not spare the time from some duty to accompany me, but Lanyard escorted me over to the real Gap, and it was there, as I stood on the crest of that great mountain top and looked down, down into the tree-tops of a great forest, far below and stretching away in the distance as far as I could see, that I realized what Cumberland Gap was. I could see threading along through the mass of trees that looked like mere bushes, so far down were they, a winding cord that resembled to my mind then a kite-string that had dropped down from above. This was the long, narrow and crooked road which led to the Union forces, which I knew were somewhere pretty close.

We were looking over into Kentucky and into the Union. I don't think I spoke much. I know that when such a scene is presented to me for the first time, I am struck dumb, as it were, and not able to rave over it, as I have so often heard others do, and have envied them.

To my first question, as to the location of the Yankees, Lanyard pointing to a clump of trees forming a little grove, seemingly isolated from the rest and a little to one side of the road, said:

"That's where they were in force when they made that attack on the Gap here."

Then we walked over to a stockade made of the trunks of saplings put on end in ditches, reaching up ten feet, behind which our Maryland boys were located. They had two guns then, and I was shown the marks of bullets of the Yankees, which were in the new wood of the stockade. Those who were on guard had a good deal to say of these wonderful guns of the Yankees that could imbed such a large long ball so deeply in the hard wood of the stockade. Our Battery had actually enjoyed the glory of putting a couple dozen of shots over into Kentucky somewhere. The bold refugees from Ireland imagined that they had done some wonderful execution by these few shots, but, upon investigation a few days later, I found that our troops were so close to the guns at the time, that the shots passed not only over them, but landed a long distance beyond, where they probably fell among the tree-tops and only scared the owls.

If this attack of our troops had been made after my report of the weak condition of the defenses of the Rebels, it might have resulted in an early capture of Cumberland Gap.

I lingered a long time in the Gap, at such points as admitted of my seeing out into Kentucky. I kept my eager longing eyes strained over that vista, hoping I might see the Stars and Stripes floating defiantly above the tree-tops. So eager was I to learn about the land of hope and of home, that lay stretched out before me, that I quickly gathered from these soldiers who were about me all the information they had about the land that lay beyond. My curiosity was pardonable at the time, because they supposed I was green and had never seen the Yankee country before. They were also quite anxious to tell all they knew, and more too. I gathered enough information in a very short time to satisfy me, first, that there were no Rebel pickets stationed beyond the Gap, though some predatory horsemen belonging to the artillery, and mounted on anything they could get, were in the habit of scouting out the roads occasionally for forage; secondly, the Yankees were in force within a few miles of me. I was told that their Cavalry frequently came almost to the foot of the mountain below.

This was enough. I should not allow another sun to set or rise on me before I had put myself under the protection of the old flag. I sat alone on a log, on the side of the hill, for a long time. I recalled that awfully hot July day that my companion and myself had sat out together on a log in like manner on a hill-side, very like this one, at Harper's Ferry, that other great hole in the mountains near my home, and how we both escaped inside the lines in the evening. My experiences in the Rebel lines during the months that followed passed before me rapidly. I was willing to risk a good deal to get away without the formality of a "Good-by" to the boys whom I had just met and left at the camp a little to the rear. I remarked to the sentry who was on guard nearest me:

"Is there any danger of being caught if I go down the hill to that house (pointing to one right below); I want to get something good to eat."

"Oh, no," he said, "our fellows go down there all the time."

He was a very obliging sentry. If he had orders at all, they were probably to allow no one to pass in; so, with a heart throbbing with suppressed excitement, I looked around. It was close on to evening, about supper time in the Rebel camps. Lanyard had returned to the performance of some duty. No one was near except the good-natured sentry. I leisurely stepped beyond "bounds," and, with a parting injunction to the soldier not to shoot when he saw me coming up, I stepped off down grade at a lively gait, and was soon winding down the horse-shoe curved road, which led me either to home or heaven, liberty or death.

Before reaching the foot of the winding road, that led on past the little house standing some distance below, I stopped a moment—only a moment—to plan. In those days my mind was soon made up, and, once I had decided a matter, I was always prepared to act upon it the same moment.

I concluded not to go to the house—that I must avoid leaving any trail by which I might be traced. To accomplish this, it was necessary that I leave the road and clamber up the steep side-hill embankment, which was full of brush and thickets; by so doing it would lead me into a wood to the side of the house.

It was probably another of my mistakes to have left the road and climbed that hill to get into the wood. I saw at the foot of the mountain below me the little old house by the roadside, which reminded me, both by its similarity in appearance and location of the old shanty near Manassas, where I had experienced so much annoying trouble from the quizzical and curious old bushwhacker proprietor, after my failure to get through the lines to Washington that night in August, 1861. It must have been about supper time when I had gotten pretty close to the house that day, because the curling, blueish smoke from a freshly-made wood fire was just then beginning to pour from the top of the big rough-stone and mud chimney, which was, as usual, hung on to the end of the cabin as a sort of annex.

The sentry I had so recently left at the top of the mountain had said that "our men" were in the habit of going down to the house, but, with the vision before me of former experience in such a mixed crowd in a shanty in Virginia, I quickly enough decided to apply some strategy and to flank the obstacle.

It's a simple matter to plan things and to apply strategy to the proposed movements. By the time I had climbed up that perpendicular cliff to the side of the road, through a thicket of last year's blackberry bushes, that were apparently growing out of a stone quarry, I was so done out that I had to sit down on the ground awhile to get my second wind. I had expended sufficient strength and nerve in making that climb to have carried me miles past the house, if I had only made the dash on the straight road.

From my seat on the rocks among the bushes, which was elevated considerably above the winding road down the mountain, I could see by the refracted sunset, in that clear atmosphere, a long way ahead of me. There seemed to be a thick, almost dense growth of timber, which was still below me, so that I looked only over the tops of the trees, as one views the chimney-tops of a city from a hill. I knew that somewhere in that general direction were the Union forces, which had recently attacked the Rebels at the Gap. I could only imagine that their outposts of cavalry were within—say a few miles at furthest.

The house that I was working so hard to avoid was yet, seemingly, as close as it had been before I had quit the road. But from my isolated position I could see only the top of it. The road had become lost under the tree-tops. Looking back, I could see nothing but the stockades at the top of the Gap, and these I could only locate in the fast gathering twilight, because I knew their exact position. There were no signs of life behind me—nor before me—except that the smoke kept curling straight upward from the chimney-top, until it formed in appearance a water-spout in the evening sky.

Up to that time, I might have safely returned to the Rebel camps, or, if I had been halted and arrested, it would not have been a difficult matter to have accounted for my being out of bounds at the time. But I had no intention of returning. I had started for home, and I was willing to risk everything to get there. I knew very well at that moment I had deliberately added to my peril, in a blind fearless sort of a way, that causes me a shudder as I write it down here to-day. If I had been caught, I would have been liable to summary execution, on the simple charge of deserting to the enemy, and, of course, any delay in the execution of this sentence must have resulted only in my character as a spy being discovered by the investigation which must follow. While thinking over these things, for the moments I sat on that mountain-side that evening, I recalled my similar experience while trying to get out of Beauregard's army in Virginia. I planned a plausible excuse to offer, in case I should accidentally run into anything hostile, when it suddenly occurred to me that the "official papers" about the strength of Beauregard's army in August, 1861, which I had gotten out of the telegraph office and had endeavored to smuggle through, were the cause of my greatest danger that time, and I had resolved then that I should never again be caught with any papers in my possession.

Following my thoughts with the movements of my hands into my pockets, to strip myself of papers, and be prepared for a dash for liberty, I hauled out the letter which the Captain had handed to me with specific instructions to deliver to the Lieutenant.

I destroyed it with a good deal of energy, after having first nervously opened and read it. By that one simple act, I had cut down the last bridge behind me. But you will not be surprised at my rash conduct, in thus robbing the Confederate mail, when I give you the substance of the letter, as nearly as I can recollect, and, by the way, a lifetime—a long and checkered lifetime—will not serve to efface from the memory the recollections of such days and nights as this in one's experience.

"Headquarters, near Knoxville.

"Lieutenant Commanding

"Detachment Maryland Artillery,

Cumberland Gap:

"I send you by —— the Muster Rolls, etc.

---

"It was the intention to go myself, but we have some prospect of a move in another direction, and I will wait here for further orders. We have borrowed this horse from the Staff, so that these papers can be fixed up and returned by ——, so they can be returned to Richmond.

---

"I have a letter from Richmond asking about the antecedents of ——, and the purpose of sending him up is, that you and the "Colonel" (the Sergeant), who brought him in, can answer.

"My information is, that he is wanted at Richmond for something. I'm waiting to hear through the Secretary of War."

"(Signed.)"

This was enough for me. I was not going back now; in fact, I'd rather be shot in trying to escape in Kentucky than to be deliberately hung in Tennessee. Those who have read my story will not censure me for opening that letter and neglecting to deliver it personally. Probably the rattle-snakes that crawled out of their holes among the rocks in that hill-side, when the weather became warmer, were astonished at the fragments of that official correspondence lying around there so loosely; may be the crumpled and torn papers became the basis of some nests. I only know that it was not delivered—not much.

This accounted for the Captain's curious questions the day I left him. I saw it all. I got up on my feet suddenly and buckled on my armor, as it were, and prepared to fly. It was getting a little late in the evening for a walk out alone in that country, but I had considerable of a motive behind me, and something of an inducement in front. Indeed, I felt, for the time being, that I could almost fly as a bird, so eager was I to get there. In starting off so suddenly, I neglected to properly take my bearings, so plunged down, recklessly, over the rocks and through the bushes, only knowing that I was going in the general direction which led me the furthest away from the Rebel camps that I had left up on top of the hill. I kept going, going blindly, I thought straight ahead, but making little progress. I wasn't the least bit tired then. While sitting down to read that letter I had rested wonderfully in a short time. It was only when I climbed down off the big hill or mountain, and had plunged, like a scared deer, into the dense growth of woods, that was at the foot of the mountain, that I was stopped, almost abruptly by the sudden appearance of darkness, which seemed to have dropped around me like a curtain. The curtain wasn't pinned with a star, because I couldn't see the evening star on the horizon on account of the trees, that were as thick here as the blackberry bushes had been up on top of the mountain.

I could only see the sky by looking straight up. I don't know that I looked up either; in fact, I don't believe I did. My recollection is that I was only concerned about where to put my feet, and, as a consequence, I was obliged to look down pretty much all the time pretty sharply. I should have appreciated just then, more than anything else, "A lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path."

It took me a little while to "get used to it," as they say when one plunges suddenly into darkness.

I have read very nice poetry about the "pathless groves," and the "pleasure in the pathless woods where none intrude," and all that sort or thing about the grandeur, and majesty, and silence of the woods at night, but I did not relish this dreadful silence and majesty that night, and, to tell the truth, I've never learned to appreciate the same grandeur since.

I like well enough to be in the woods at night, if I am one of a camp at any army corps headquarters, and 25,000 soldiers are looking out for the Rebels that may be prowling through the majestic woods, but, alone, I don't like it a bit.

I was alone in a deep, dark wood, somewhere between the outposts of the two armies, in the neighborhood of Cumberland Gap.

Everything around me had become obscured by the thick darkness, that one can almost feel on a dark night. I kept going, as I supposed, straight ahead, clambering over fallen logs, stretching out my hands before me as I stepped cautiously ahead to guard against a too sudden contact with the trunks of trees, stumbling over exposed roots, or becoming entangled in undergrowth.

This was the tiresome, dreadfully tiresome and discouraging path that I trod that night, for hour after hour, in my efforts to get home.

Almost exhausted, I began to grow impatient at not meeting with any encouraging outlook. I felt that I had had enough of this and was entitled to a change. I was sure that I had traveled over sufficient ground to have brought me, at least, a couple of miles nearer the Union lines. But I did not then take into consideration the fact that I had been going blindly, and had been merely stumbling and crawling around in a circle, as I have heard all persons do who become lost in the woods.

I realized with a shudder of horror that I was lost—lost, and lost forever—in that dark wood nearest the enemy; because I knew very well, from the observations of the country that I had made from the mountain top, that I should have come out on to the road that led on toward the Union line of pickets long before, if I had kept the course that I had so carefully laid out before dark. What did I do? I sat down on a big log and cried like a big baby; and that's what you would have done.

I wasn't so badly scared as I was demoralized, tired out, and discouraged.

After I had sat long enough to have somewhat recovered myself, I remembered all that I had ever read or heard of persons who were lost in the woods. I recalled that when only a boy, in my mountain home, I had connected myself voluntarily with a party of kind-hearted mountaineers who had joined in a body to search those mountain fastnesses for two little children of six and eight years old, who had strayed from their home a day or so previously, and were lost in the woods. My two days and nights' experience in that searching party became of great service to me now.

I first attempted to ascertain in the darkness, by feeling with my hands, which side of the trunks of the standing trees the moss was growing on. I knew that if I could establish for a certainty this fact, from several of the trees, I would, from this circumstance, have been able to locate the points of the compass, but it failed me, because of the utter darkness of the night and the absence of such a trifling thing as a match, with which to make a glimmer of light in that overpowering gloom. Matches are cheap enough, but, if I had had the money then, I would have been willing to have given as much cash for the little stick of wood, with a light on the end of it, as would have bought all the logs contained in that forest of lumber.

There was another sign that has never failed the lost and the distressed, from wherever looked up to, when the sky was not clouded—the North Star.

While a lad at school I had been taught how to find this, the only true and fixed star, and that night, while lost and in such dire distress in that dark woods, along side of the enemy, who had, by this time, surely learned of my escape, I looked up through scalding tears for the dipper and the pointer, and through the leafy branches of a high, old oak tree, the bright, twinkling, constant and true little North star was looking down brightly upon me as I sat there on the old log. What a bright, beautiful, hopeful little emblem it was to me then, and how often have I recalled this night, when I look up still and find it always the same friend.

I felt as much relief at the discovery of the North star as if I had found a lost trail in the sky. I felt that somehow I should be able, from this fact, to come out all right, though I was sorely puzzled to discover that, in appearance, the star seemed to be almost over the top of the mountain that I was so anxious to get away from. I did not then understand, as I since learned, that the range of mountains is nearly North and South.

"I passed a miserable night,
So full of ugly sights, of ghastly thoughts,
That, as I am a Christian, faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days."

This quotation expresses in the familiar lines my experience more satisfactorily than I could attempt in a column a description of this one night of holy terror. It's bad enough to be lost under any circumstances, but at night, between two lines in a deep, dark forest, with the certainty of an ignominious death pursuing me as a phantom, almost mocking me through the screeching, hooting owls, whose diabolical laughter at my distress, in having failed to reach the goal that was in sight before dark were audible above the tree-tops.

As I have so often said before, there is only one way to properly understand the feelings under such conditions, and that is, "put yourself in his place." This can only be done, and that but feebly, in the imagination now, because there probably never will be just such another "dark path to glory" in that part of the country.

If I could only have kept moving in any direction, it would have been something of a relief, but I couldn't stir without stumbling over old roots of fallen trees. I didn't mind that so much, but everything was so awfully quiet and solemn that it seemed as if, every step I made, my feet would crash into the little twigs that made so much noise that I became startled every time, lest my every movement would be heard for miles distant.

So the only thing for me to do was to sit down on an old rotten log, that I had at last stumbled on, and wait for more light. The wild, scared thoughts and weird, horrible sounds that went through my head while I sat on that log in that dark woods that long, long night, can never be described. There were owls, bats, and other solemn birds of the night, sitting on the adjacent trees, hooting in chorus, and flying past a crazy-looking, wild boy of the woods, sitting like a knot on a log, wild-eyed, and with frantic gestures that would become a person with an attack of mania, who attempts blindly to protect and defend himself from imaginary enemies that would fly uncomfortably close.

I didn't see any big game. I didn't want to see any. I was not hunting; but I imagined there was a whole menagerie of such things around me. We hear a great deal about the silence and the majestic grandeur of the forest, but that's all poetry. There are more noises—and the most horrible noises—when alone, to be heard in a deep wood on a still, quiet night than ever I heard in the streets of any city at midnight.

It was these sounds that stirred the blood in my veins and kept the cold chills running down my back, so that I sat there and shook like one with an attack of ague.

When I could stand it no longer, and found it impossible to move in either direction, I climbed a tree. In getting up a pretty good-sized tree, I felt that I was out of the world and away from the danger of crawling and creeping things, though the owls became more curious and inquisitive than ever. That wood was full of owls. I was more afraid of them that night than of panthers—or Rebels either.

Once up in the tree, I was kept busily employed with the necessity for constantly changing my position. I couldn't get "fixed" comfortably on any limb or crotch in that old tree, and I verily believe that I "adapted myself" to every position that it afforded.

From my elevated position in the top branch of the tree I could look out through the tops of adjoining trees. It was before the season for the leaves to be thick in that section.

In one direction, I discovered what I had at first taken for a heavy cloud on the horizon were the outlines of the mountain. There were no signs, from my outlook, of the house and road I had seen last before coming into the woods. There was nothing whatever to serve as a guide, except the little North star. I could only wait for daylight, which must soon come. It seemed as if I had been ages in the woods. I looked eagerly for the breaking of the gray dawn, but I had been straining my eyes in the wrong direction, expecting in my dazed condition to see the first glimmer come from the western horizon. It was when I looked back of me, with a sigh of discouragement, that I first beheld the light of a coming dawn.

"Night's candles were burnt out,
And jocund day stood tiptoe
On the misty mountain top."

In a moment I became renewed with the old life and fire of those boyish days. Only stopping long enough to get a good view of the surrounding hills or mountains, I was able to discover that the Gap, from whence I came, was, apparently, closer than when I had first taken to the woods in the early twilight.

If I didn't know exactly where to go to find the Union pickets, I saw quite plainly where not to go, and knowing that I'd not make any mistake in getting further away from the Gap, I crawled hastily out of the tree, and in another moment was hopping along through the woods, which were yet quite dark down on the ground.

The uneasy night birds had flown. I heard a chicken crow, though it may have been a mile distant. I steered as clear of that signal of the proximity of a house as a sailor does of a fog-horn. As the light began to break through the tops of the trees, I was able to make better headway. The big mountain, that had cast a shadow over the world of woods all that night, loomed up grandly in the gray dawn; the Gap stood out as clearly defined in its profile as if it had been cut out by a chisel. There was nothing stirring anywhere but me; all the noises had apparently gone to sleep, and I, recognizing by former experience that the early morning is the safest time to travel in an enemy's lines, was making the best use I could of the "limited time at my disposal" before the Rebel officers would wake up and start their scouts out after me.

Without meeting with any obstructions, except the fallen logs and bushes, I must have traveled a mile, when I suddenly emerged from the woods on to a path, or mountain road, which led in the same direction I wished to go. I cautiously followed this until it led into another, a larger and apparently a more generally used wagon road, which I knew must be the main road leading up to the Gap from Kentucky. This, I knew, if followed up, would bring me into the Union lines. But it would also be likely to be used by any Rebel cavalrymen or scouts who might be sent out from the Gap.

Not having any means of defense with me, in case I should be confronted by an armed scout, I would simply have been at his mercy and been led back to the Gap, like a sheep with a rope about its neck. On this account, I was obliged to keep myself under cover of the woods, but, fearing to trust myself again in the deep woods too far, I scouted along the edge as near the road as I dared, keeping the open road in view all the time.

In this way I moved along slowly enough, watching eagerly up and down the road for some signs of a picket in blue in one direction and a scout in gray in the other.

Soldiers seemed to be awfully scarce out there that morning. I thought I'd never get out of the woods, or find relief from the long strain on my nerves, my legs, and my stomach. Not seeing anything in either direction for so long, I at last, to help myself along faster and with less difficulty, boldly came out to the road, and, with one good, long look behind me, started to walk ahead at a double-quick gait.

I had not gone far when, stopping to listen, as was my habit on such occasions, I was startled to hear what I supposed were horses' feet behind me. In a moment I was in the woods at the side of the road, where my long jumps made such a noise in the dry undergrowth that I had to stop and lie down.

I saw two gray coats coming up the road together, both of them on foot. Dropping myself to the ground as suddenly as if shot, just where I stood, I lay for a few seconds in a tremor of fright, the only sound audible being my heart wildly beating.

As the two men passed by me on the road, they were talking in a hurried way between themselves, and my presence was not discovered. I lifted my head far enough to look after them when they passed. I saw that they were none other than two men from our own Rebel company of Maryland Artillery; but, worst of all, one of the two was Lanyard, my old Richmond mate and chum; the other was a fat, young German, who had been a baker in Richmond.

The first thought in my mind was that these two fellows had been sent out on the road after me. Any person would have so surmised under like circumstances, and, like myself, would have been terror-stricken at the thought of being so close to them. It was not comforting, either, to know that they were now not only on my path, but they were ahead of me.

What to do under the suddenly-changed condition of things was only a momentary puzzle. I argued to myself that they could not go very far ahead on that road without running into the Union pickets, and that, if they were not captured by them, they would soon be coming back over that path. In either case, I should avoid the road, and endeavor once again to get through to the Union lines through the woods only, while the daylight lasted.

The thought that perhaps our forces had fallen back some distance, or that they might have wholly abandoned that part of the country, was not comforting. While I did not at first understand why Lanyard, of all others, should be the person detailed to intercept me, I began to imagine that his notion was that I had innocently strayed off and been lost, and that his purpose was only to aid me in a friendly way, in my return to the Rebel camp.

While walking through the wood, some such thoughts as I have tried to describe were crowding each other through my now frenzied brain, when the current was suddenly changed by hearing the wild barking of dogs ahead, in the direction my pursuers had taken on the road.

If there is one thing more than any other that a scout detests, while he is quietly pursuing his business, it's a barking dog.

Crawling carefully toward the sound, I could see some smoke above the trees, and a little beyond, on the opposite side of the road, a house. That was enough for me. I wanted some breakfast terribly just then, but I had no use for any more houses. What I wanted to see was a camp of soldiers with their tents and the Stars and Stripes floating over them.

It took a long time to flank that insignificant little old house, and made my legs very tired, but I succeeded in accomplishing the task at last, and had the satisfaction of looking back at it from a hill-top on the road, some distance inside, or beyond it.

I saw then what surprised me no little. In the road and all about the front of the house that I had passed, were quite a crowd of men and some horses tied to the fences alongside. The men seemed to be armed, and they wore blue clothes. I wasn't exactly sure of this from the distance. I remembered my mistake in Virginia in trusting too much to the blue clothes, and determined that this time I should be sure the wearer of the blue was a Union soldier and not a disguised Rebel.

I hoped sincerely and prayed that I had passed a Union outpost, and was at last within the United States. That they had not seen me was evident, from the indifferent and careless manner of the men. I judged, too, that the dogs had announced the approach of Lanyard and the baker to the house, and that they were both detained there.

I trudged ahead, hugging the road closely, meeting with no one in that lonely country, until so tired out and exhausted, after my night and now half of the day, that I was forced to sit down by the roadside to rest. I don't think I went to sleep, but must have dozed off, so completely exhausted had I become. I dreamed of my capture, the tramp of horses' feet, and heard the angry voices, which I had imagined belonged to a gang of Rebels, who were dragging my helpless body to a good place for a hanging.

In this nightmare in the broad daylight I was as helpless as if tied hand and foot, and could not utter a word, but blindly submitted to their brutal treatment, because too weak to resist. Aroused by the approaching sound of persons' voices, before I could get to my feet two horsemen in blue, armed with carbines, their sabers rattling, were almost up to me. In front of the two cavalrymen walking along, not like captured prisoners, but gayly laughing and talking with the mounted men, were my two comrades in arms—Lanyard and the baker.

I lay perfectly stunned. I dare not, I could not, move for an instant, when they quickly came almost abreast of me, and I jumped up so suddenly as to scare the nearest horse, so that it shied against its companion.

I spoke first, with the desperation of an outlaw challenging a helpless traveler: "Are you Union or Confederate?"

Before he could answer my question, which had been put as pointedly as if demanding money or life, Lanyard, with a shout of pleased surprise, came over to me, saying:

"Bully for us! We are all right, my old chum," and, turning to the cavalryman, who seemed to be getting ready for a combat or a conspiracy, he said:

"This is my old chum that I was telling about," then turning to me, for I was not yet fully satisfied in my own mind—"Why, in h—, didn't you tell me, so that we could come together?"

Then, after seeing that I was indeed O.K. at last, and, sure enough, under the guard of the troopers of the United States Army, I was ready for an Indian dance, even though I was so tired that my legs would scarcely carry me along.

The youngest of the troopers was a handsome boy of about nineteen or twenty, who informed me that he was a Kentuckian, and one of the company of Kentucky Cavalryman in the Union Army.

I hope this young chap and his companion are living yet somewhere in the beautiful blue-grass region of Kentucky, and that they may see this book, and will be kind enough to give me their present address.

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