THE FALL OF FT. DONELSON,
in Tennessee, was a fearful blow to me. Of course there was great exultation everywhere up North. I saw and heard it all, but could say nothing. One day while in Beloit, I saw a great crowd on the sidewalk. Drawing near I discovered the attraction. It was a butternut jeans jacket, which had been taken off a dead Confederate at Ft. Donelson. It was shot through and was saturated with blood. On it was a large placard with these words:
"Taken from the dead body of Private Turner of the Mississippi Rifles on the battlefield of Fort Donelson."
I gazed at it for a moment and heard the exultant laugh and jeers from the toughs who gathered about it. I turned away with clenched teeth, determined to go South at all hazards and at once I announced to my friends that evening that I was going to Chicago, a hundred miles away, next morning to see the Fort Donelson prisoners who were confined in Camp Douglas.
[Chapter Four]
Gets a pass into Camp Douglas; Learns first lesson in "Shut-mouth"; Starts afoot out of Chicago; Frogs in the throat; Pawns his pistol; Rides with Federal soldiers; Across the Mississippi.
I HAD only a little money. I could have gotten more from my friends if I had asked for it, but I thought possibly I might be captured and traced back to their home and get them in trouble. I wanted them to have the privilege of saying they knew nothing at all about my plans and for the same reason, I did not care for them to know of my intentions. Lest I should create some suspicion, I took no satchel with me. On the 6th of March, 1862, I started. With a shawl securely strapped, in which I had slipped a shirt, with every scratch of pen or pencil, by which I might be identified, destroyed, I bade farewell to my friends, with no expectation of returning again.
I shall say now and then that things "happened," but I do not believe that things happen. I think they are all a part of the chain of God's great plan.
It so happened that I put up at the Madison House in passing through Chicago, and so I naturally went back to the same place in returning to the city, and this happened to be the headquarters of Col. Mulligan, the Commandant of Camp Douglas. Arriving there in the middle of the afternoon, I got aboard a street car and went out to the Camp. Looking through the open gate, I saw for the first time Confederate soldiers. They were all dressed in butternut jeans. In the beginning, the Confederates did not wear the grey, because they did not have it. The cloth made all over the country by the mothers and sisters was jeans, the color of butternut.
Returning to the hotel, after supper I wrote the very best note I could to Col. Mulligan and sent it up to his rooms. Expecting every moment to be called up into his office, it seemed that minutes were hours. I am sure, if my fears had been realized, it would have taken only about two questions to have tangled me. What would have happened then, I have no idea, but I guess I would have been arrested and probably thrown into prison as a Southern sympathizer. But to my great delight, the servant returned with a silver waiter and on it was a nice little card, saying: