CHAPTER XIV.
ON TO RICHMOND—A NIGHT OF TERROR—A GHASTLY FIND IN THE WOODS—ATTACKED BY BLOODHOUNDS—OTHER MIRACULOUS ESCAPES—FIRST VISIT TO FREDERICKSBURG—A COLLECTION TAKEN UP IN A CHURCH IN VIRGINIA FOR THE "BOY SPY"—ARRIVES IN RICHMOND.
When I heard the officer in command of the cavalry party give instructions to his Sergeant to inquire "if any strangers had been seen about there," I jumped to the conclusion that it was a detachment of Rebel cavalry that had been sent after me. It may have been that this party had received general instructions only—to look out for all strangers traveling over the roads; but I knew full well that the old man would make such a reply to any inquiries as would excite their suspicion and put me to the dangerous test of an examination.
In sliding off the back-porch roof so suddenly, I had further injured my already tired and swollen foot; but I seemed to forget all about it for the time, and ran off as lively as if I were just out of bed after a refreshing sleep.
I believe that they did not discover the "presence" of an enemy for some time after I had gotten off, or until the old man had been roused from his sleep; and I imagined, after a parley with him, the officer would accompany him to my room in the garret for the purpose of interviewing their guest.
What they thought when they found the bed empty, and nothing left of the poor Texas cripple but his two improvised crutches, I must leave to imagination.
I ran through the darkness wildly, recklessly, as fast as I could, scarcely knowing whither I was going, only feeling that each jump or step led me further from the cavalrymen. The night was quite dark. My course led me across a plowed field to a fence over which I climbed quickly, and plunged into a thicket or wood of small pine trees.
Once into this cover, I plodded along slowly, being obliged to pick my steps. It was blind traveling, and I avoided running into the briar bushes that are so plentiful in that part of Virginia. Through this thicket, every step, to my frightened wits, seemed sure to betray my presence by the breaking or snapping of the twigs and bushes.
I didn't know where it would lead me, but I could not for the life of me keep still a single moment. I felt impelled by some unseen power to keep going on, on—how long I dodged and scratched through the bushes and briars can not be told. I only remember that every few steps I would be obliged to halt, having run my face against some low, thorny limb of the heavy growth of saplings, that would almost bring the tears to my eyes from the smart pains inflicted. I carried my hat in my hand, as I always do when I'm hard-pressed, and my long hair, like that of Absalom, gave me a great deal of additional trouble.
I was soon beyond sight or sound of the cavalrymen, whom I had left in the road. I desired to keep near the roads leading toward Fredericksburg. I assumed that, in pursuing, these men would naturally imagine I had taken the back track to reach the railroad.
I sometimes almost despaired of getting far enough away from the house to prevent capture before daylight would come. When I'd stop for a few moments to untangle myself from the bushes, or to feel my way over a fallen tree, I'd imagine that the curious noises that every one hears in the stillness of the night in the woods were the echoes of the pursuing Rebels.
I feared above all things else that they would procure from some of the neighboring houses some dogs—bloodhounds, perhaps—that would be used to track me through the thicket. In this way a most miserable night passed.
Though I say it, who should not, I had less fear of the Rebels in arms than of the dogs. In all my adventures in their camps, I had preserved secretly, next to my body, the little Colt's five-shooter revolver. I knew how to use it. There were the five loads yet in it, that I had put in before leaving Pennsylvania, and I had resolved that four of them would be used against either Rebels or bloodhounds and the fifth would relieve me from further pursuit.
I admit freely that I was frightened; indeed, I was scared half to death, and would have given the world and all that was in it, if it were mine, to have gotten out of the miserable scrape in which I had voluntarily placed myself. Under such conditions even a frightened boy will become desperate.
I had deliberately determined to sell my life as dearly as possible, and, if they had not killed me, I should most certainly have done the business for myself rather than take any further chances in their hands. This is the way I was feeling while resting for a few moments on an old log.
A picture of myself would show a smooth-faced youngster sitting "like a knot on a log," dressed in three-fourths of a shirt, a pair of torn trousers, one shoe and a half, bare-headed, long tangled hair, and I imagine an expression of countenance that would closely resemble the "Wild Boy of the Woods." I had torn off the greater part of my shirt to bandage a sore foot the evening previously.
When a person is hunted down he can accomplish some wonderful feats in quick traveling, even if the difficulties to be overcome are distressingly innumerable.
I had forgotten all about the sore foot, on which I had limped to the house the night before. My wrist, on which the window sash had fallen, was most painful and threatened to give me trouble. Though I had been on a terrible jaunt for twenty-four hours previously, I did not at that time feel tired, sleepy, or even hungry.
There was the one idea in my head—to make all the speed possible, and increase the distance between myself and Manassas. I had come upon a peculiarly sickening smell, that made me a little sick at the stomach, when all of a sudden I was startled, and my blood chilled, by a rustling noise in front of me; glancing ahead, in a terror of fright, I saw gleaming through the darkness something that I thought and believed might be the glaring eyes of a bloodhound. That dread was in my mind, but in the next instant the eyes had disappeared; with a rushing, rustling noise, the object, whatever it was that owned the terrible eyes, ran off through the woods.
For the moment I was so stunned that I could scarcely move forward or backward; but, on second thought, realizing it was probably some wolfish dog that I had surprised while feeding upon the carcass of a dead sheep, I gathered courage to move ahead. As it was in my path, I was obliged to approach it, despite the sickening odor which was everywhere around. In a hot, sultry August night it was like—well, old soldiers can imagine what it was like. Desirous of avoiding the stench as much as possible, I was climbing over a log rather than walk too close to where I supposed the eyes had been; hurrying along, holding my breath, with one hand to my nose, what was my horror to find that I had stepped from the top of the log right down on to the decaying body of—a man! O, horror of horrors! I can not write of it. I've never even told the story to my best friends. It has been too dreadful to contemplate; but the naked, disgusting facts are, that I stepped down on to the soft object—my foot slipped, as it would from a rotten, slimy substance, throwing me partly down, as I had one hand on my nose, and, in my efforts to recover myself, plunged both my hands into the soft, decaying flesh of the head, causing the hair to peel off the scalp.
I HAD STEPPED ON TO THE DECAYING BODY OF—A MAN.
What did I do? What would you have done? I was, for that moment in my life, as wild as ever lunatic could be; and can not remember further than that I ran straight ahead toward the road, which I had been so careful to avoid, and, after reaching it, I scaled the fence, like a scared dog, at two bounds, and ran—oh dear me—I didn't care what I should meet after that. My steps were long and quick, and it was not until I was completely exhausted that I stopped for a rest. I rubbed my hands in the dusty road; I polished the shoe in the dust of the road that had slipped off the slimy bones, but the smell would not out; it seemed to penetrate everything; and I became deathly sick from the exhaustion. The experience of that hour had so turned my head and stomach that I was as weak and helpless as a child. In this condition I lay down in a fence-corner, not able to hold my head up another moment. Perhaps I fainted, but I claim never to have fainted.
I know that the dreadful object was a half-buried man. I know this, because some of his hair was in the sleeve of my shirt the next day. I don't feel like writing anything more about it, and will dismiss it with the theory which I subsequently entertained: that it was most likely the unburied body of a wounded Rebel, or, perhaps, an escaped Union prisoner who, like myself, after the recent battle of Manassas, had concealed himself in the thicket, and while in that condition he had probably taken sick, and being unable to procure any assistance, or to make his presence known, had died this lonely and unhappy death; and the wolves and dogs only had found his resting place—the log his only tombstone.
I lay curled up in the fence-corner for an hour or so. I imagined everything. Dear me! I might fill a book with the thoughts that whirled through my excited, feverish brain that dreadful night. I felt that this would be my fate. Every stick of wood became a snake, and they soon became so numerous that I was surrounded by them on all sides. The trees were a mass of living, laughing, bowing giants, who were there to laugh at my misery; and the noises—well, all know how a little frog can scare a big man when it darts into the puddle of water with a thug, especially if it's at night and he alone. I've often been scared by the suddenness of their jump, but that one night in particular it seemed as if all the wild animals in creation had gathered about that country, attracted by the smell from the distant battlefield of Manassas.
There were plenty of unburied and half-buried bodies all over the country about Manassas—the very air was laden with the odor from decaying horses, mules, etc. One can imagine far better than I can describe the sensations of an over-sensitive youth as he lay in a fence-corner of Virginia, forced to inhale the odor and obliged to hear all the dreadful noises that came out of the dark woods, and add to this the certain knowledge that, if I should become prostrated, then all hope of any relief for me from this veritable hell in Virginia would disappear.
As I lay there to add further to my cup of misery, I heard coming along the road, the tramp and gallop of horses. Lying on the ground one can hear the horses' feet a long way off, and I suffered in anticipation just so much the more. I imagined these were the same cavalrymen I had left at the house. This new danger served to rouse me partially, and raising my head a little, I got my trusty little Colt out of its concealment, and was ready for the end.
In truth I did not then care, and had become so perfectly desperate that I was ready and indeed almost anxious to be out of my misery.
They approached rapidly. I raised myself to a sitting posture, placed my back against the fence, cocked the pistol, and waited for their appearance. They trotted up, talking gaily among themselves and without seeing me, as their horses shied past. That was not very wonderful, because I was so close to the fence as to become covered by the shadow; the night was still too dark for objects to be seen at a short distance, especially from a rapidly-trotting horse.
The passing of this cavalry detachment before me, as I sat in the fence-corner, served to arouse my drooping spirits somewhat. The dust which they had raised had scarcely settled, and the sound of their horses' hoofs were yet to be heard, when I became imbued with a new strength and hope, realizing that there was yet some hope for my escaping.
I knew that it would be safe enough to follow along the road in the wake of that troop of cavalrymen; and the fact that there were no infantry pickets further along this road, was evident from the fact of the cavalry being out on this scout.
I stepped out into the road with renewed energy, glad enough to be moving to any place that would take me from the sight and smell of such scenes.
I don't know how long I walked. I remember very well that I found it necessary to stop every little while to rest. I was becoming so weak that I could scarcely hold my head up, and every time I'd sit down I'd involuntarily drop helplessly, and soon find myself going off to sleep on the roadside, being lulled to obliviousness by the queer, unearthly sounds from the wood—the effect being pretty much the same that I once experienced when taking laughing gas in a dentist's shop.
I roused myself often, each step with a greater effort, and had the daylight been delayed but a little longer I should have been obliged to succumb. The appearance of the gray dawn in the East seemed to me as a sign or token of encouragement, and from its appearance I took fresh courage and kept moving, as if impelled by an unseen power "on to Richmond."
It is said the darkest part of the night is just before the dawn; so I have always found it; and it has been my observation, too, that the safest time to scout is just before or at dawn; then all animal nature seem to sleep or, at least, be off their guard, thinking, perhaps, everybody else like themselves are sleepy.
This was one reason why I was able to travel some distance after the Rebel cavalrymen in such apparent safety. I knew that, if they returned along this road, I should be able to discover their approach a long time before they could get up to me, and could get out of the way. I judged rightly, too, that they would be the only trouble I should have to overcome, as it was evidently their assignment to look after that particular section.
Why didn't I get ahead of them? I didn't have a horse, and it was safer to follow them than have them follow me. They would ask at every house if a stranger had passed. In this way they had caught up to me once. Now they will be told at each house ahead of me that no one had been along that way.
That's the way I was arguing the question in my own mind that morning. I moved along rather hopefully, not intending under any circumstances to approach a house or to allow myself to be seen by any one.
But I was tired, weak and so hungry; and the best resolutions can be broken down by the pleasant odor of good cookery from a farmhouse, especially when it's wafted out to a poor hungry devil on the road.
I had discovered about sunrise some blue wood-smoke curling up over the tops of a little growth of trees to the side of the road yet some distance ahead. Knowing that I dare not approach from the road, I crawled wearily over the fence, and rather reluctantly began my old tactics of flanking the place and advancing in the rear of it. When I got through the woods and came to the opening nearest the house, I found myself almost behind it.
The house was larger than any that I had seen the previous evening, and I gathered from the appearance of several little outbuildings, which I judged were "quarters" for the negroes, that the place belonged to a well-to-do Virginia slave-owner. There was no smoke coming from the large house; it was from one of the little buildings that I supposed was an out-kitchen. The proprietors, or white folks, were evidently still asleep. An old aunty was prowling about the wood-yard gathering up chips.
The pangs of hunger and thirst were driving me pretty nearly wild, and, being so dreadfully weak and exhausted, I felt that I must have something to eat; that only a cup of coffee would do me for the rest of the day. But I must have something to eat to keep me alive. Desperate, and believing it to be the safest time to take the risk, I walked boldly out from my hiding place straight up to the quarters, determined to appeal to the old aunty, for a bite of something. She had gathered her apron full of chips and had gone back into the kitchen with them, so that I was able to follow her to the house unobserved, and was flattering myself that I had succeeded so well when all at once two dogs that I had not seen rushed savagely down the back yard toward me. I raised my two arms in a frightened way as they rushed on me; the foremost one sprang up, placing his feet on my breast and tried to reach my face or throat, but only succeeded in inserting his teeth in the fleshy part of the muscle of my left arm. As I had only the thin covering of the shirt, he tore this in a distressingly painful manner. I have the marks yet on that arm. The wound has been a painful one at many times during these twenty-five years; but the Pension Office regulations do not "compensate" for the bite of a bloodhound, so I have not mentioned it outside my own family.
The old colored woman rushed out, followed by her old man, who grabbed the dog by his hind legs and threw him over; the two other dogs, attracted by the scent of the dead man on my shoes and trousers, could scarcely be driven away from me.
The old woman kindly took me into the kitchen and washed the bloody arm, and bound it up with a piece of turban which she tore off for the purpose. Without asking any questions, I was given a cup of good black coffee and some hoe-cakes, which I gulped down with a relish.
These poor, ignorant, black people knew instinctively that they were succoring a friend, and at a very great risk to themselves; and to relieve them of any fear for their own safety, should their conduct be discovered, I told them the old, old story about being lost on the road, etc.
The old man, who had been watching out of the doorway as I ate my breakfast at the hearth, observed, knowingly:
"The master's folks isn't out of bed yet, but I specs dem sogers will want dey hosses, so I'se gwine along to de barn to feed, Liza."
The hint was sufficient, and to my hurried inquiry:
"Are there any cavalrymen at the house?"
"Yes, 'deed; dahs a whole company sleepin' on de front poach over dar."
"How long have they been here?" said I, putting down my cup.
"Dey comes hyar most every night, and sleeps on dat poach tel they get over breakfast."
That was sufficient. I had lost all pain in my arm; my hunger had been satisfied with less than half a breakfast, and, hastily thanking the old aunty, I made an excuse about not wanting them to know I was out of camp, and left—the shortest cut for the woods.
I was up to my pursuers, and had left them asleep on the porch, awaiting their breakfast. This would give me an hour's start ahead of them, and I gathered renewed courage from the belief that they would return from that point.
As I have heretofore said, I am not a believer in Spiritualism, but I have always felt convinced in my own mind that the dog was sent by a higher power to prevent me going up to the house where were sleeping a half a dozen or more Rebel cavalrymen.
I struggled along through the dreary, desolate, pine woods, skirting the roads and avoiding houses, suffering with my wounded foot, wrist and arm; fortunately the houses were not many, which allowed of my using the road more freely. It was along about noon, I think, when I reached the top of the hill at the old town of Falmouth, which overlooks Fredericksburg and vicinity. Here was an obstruction in the shape of the Rappahannock river, which had to be crossed by a ferry into Fredericksburg. Of course, everybody who crossed there would be scrutinized closely, so that their identity could be traced.
It may be asked, why did I not attempt to reach the Potomac from this place at this time. I don't know exactly why, except, perhaps, that I felt I was being impelled by some mysterious power to go to Richmond.
The Potomac was only about ten or twelve miles distant, but it was also four or five miles in width, and the Rebels controlled all the means of communication across to Maryland. Richmond was forty miles distant, and a railroad ran there from Fredericksburg.
Luckily for my purpose, a drove of horses, being steered by an old farmer and two colored men, made an appearance at the top of the hill leading into Falmouth. Seeing my chance, I asked one of the drivers to be allowed to ride an "empty" horse over the river. He consented, and in this way I rode down the hill, and we crossed the Rappahannock and entered Fredericksburg in August, 1861.
I had intended to stop at Fredericksburg and run the gauntlet of the railway trains into Richmond, but I found myself so comfortable, seated on the bare back of a horse, that I concluded to stay with the drove the balance of the day, so we passed right through the town and on down the main road to Richmond.
I felt reasonably safe from pursuit. Bloodhounds would not be able to track me that night, as they most certainly would when my presence at the colored shanty should become known.
The old uncle told me that the dog that bit me was a young bloodhound, and that the proprietor of the house kept a pack, and I suspected that the object of the officers in visiting him was to secure their use. But, in getting on a horse and crossing the river, I had eluded their scent, and felt safe enough from further danger in that direction. It was also fortunate for me that I was further able to disguise myself, by traveling the road in charge of a couple of colored men with a drove of horses that were being sent to Richmond for the army.
That evening, without further adventure or trouble, except that I began to suffer from my foot and arm, we reached an old-fashioned, out-of-the-way stopping place, called Hanover Court House, where the colored boys had been ordered to keep the horses over night.
They found entertainment in the quarters. I was received into the house as a wounded refugee soldier en route to Richmond, and treated in first-class shape by the old landlord and his kind wife.
I had a new story for them that took real well.
I slept soundly in a nice bed between the clean, white sheets. I am sure that I felt devoutly thankful for the home-like, pleasant change in my surroundings from the two preceding nights.
The agreeable change in my surroundings that remains most grateful in my memory is, that the kind-hearted and motherly old landlady, seeing my wounded, bleeding arm, which had soiled the whole side of my already pretty dirty shirt, at once waddled off to fathom from the depths of some bureau drawer a nice, clean, white shirt, and with it across her arm she marched back to my room almost out of breath, because she was so stout, saying:
"My dear, you must take off that shirt, which seems to be soiled by your wound; here is some fresh linen that you will please use."
The old gentleman, who though not so rotund as his wife was fully as kind, approvingly observed: "Why, of course, mother, that's right;" addressing me courteously, "Is there anything else we can do to make you comfortable, sir?"
Thanking them profusely and perhaps tearfully, I asked only for a little warm water, before retiring, that I might bathe and dress my wounded arm—to which request the old lady called out:
"Chloe, have some warm water brought here at once—you hyar?" She "hyard." While I was yet telling these dear old people some of the most bare-faced lies about myself being a wounded refugee from Maryland, etc., Chloe waddled into the room with a bowl of water in one hand and a couple of towels across her black arm.
Her appearance interrupted for the time the flow of yarns, as both the old gentleman and lady excused themselves, first directing "Aunty" to help the "young gentleman to dress his wound."
Aunty stood up in front of me with both sleeves rolled up, as if ready for a fight, when I should strip off the old shirt, which was sticking closer than a brother to the sore spots. But Aunty very kindly helped me as tenderly as she could, and when my torn, inflamed arm was exposed she could not refrain from uttering a cry of sympathy, and wanted at once to go down to bring up the "Missus" to see it. I would not allow her to do that, and, with her aid, I washed as well as I could, and was about to pull the shirt on over it, when, without asking my consent, old Aunty marched out of the room, saying: "Ise gwine get Missus put sothin on dat arm," and disappeared. Very soon the old lady embarrassed me by walking boldly into the room; and, after a few motherly words of sympathy, she took hold of me, as if I were a half-naked baby, and turned me around for her inspection. Then giving a few words of direction to "Aunty" to bring certain articles, she took motherly control of me, and for the time I became as a child in her hands, and was put to bed after my wound had been carefully dressed and wrapped by her own kind hands.
The old gentleman made an appearance, too, with some medicine for the inner man, which I swallowed like an obedient child.
We had, previously, had some supper. I was, of course, profoundly thankful for their kind attention, but was at last ordered, in the same kindly way: "Don't talk another bit, but go to sleep!" and I did not require much inducement to court the drowsy goddess. That night no unpleasant dreams disturbed my heavy slumber. The ghost of the horrible, unburied soldier, on which I had stumbled the previous night, did not haunt me. I was dead to everything for the time, and slept as soundly as a child.
The sun was shining brightly through the windows of my bedroom, on a beautiful Sunday morning, in August, 1861, when I was roused from this refreshing slumber by the voice of the old "aunty"—
"Missus says you'd better have some toast and egg, and a cup of coffee, den you can sleep some moah."
There is nothing that will rouse a sleeper so quick as the invitation to breakfast, especially if the sleeper has not been over-fed and surfeited. Toast and egg is a weakness with me even now, and when I heard the delectable words, "toast, egg, and coffee," I was wide-awake in an instant. But when I attempted to turn myself, so that I could see who had spoken these magic words that suggested such an agreeable aroma, I found that I was so sore and so much bruised that the attempt to move started through my whole frame twitches of sharp pain. "Aunty," seeing that I was awake, came closer to my bed, and, in a kindly way, asked:
"How is you dis mornin'?"
In attempting again to move, I was forced to cry out with the pain which the exertion caused. Aunty bade me, "Jis you lie dar; I'll fetch your coffee!" And walked out leaving me alone; and for the few moments all my distress and trouble came upon me like a sudden cloud, as I realized upon waking that I was yet in the enemy's country, far enough from home, while between us was almost the insurmountable obstacle of the Rebel Army. I saw, too, that the heretofore unexpected danger of a spell of serious sickness was now liable to be added to my other troubles and difficulties. These gloomy forebodings were dispelled for the moment by a gentle knock at my door and the kindly appearance of the mother of the house, upon my invitation to come in, who, with a pleasant "Good-morning," walked up to my bed and placed her hand upon my forehead. Without asking a question, she said:
"Why, you are ever so much better than I expected to find you this morning."
This was pleasant news for me to be sure, as I had not speculated at all on being sick. When with a few more kind words she left me, I heard the landlord say:
"Mother, don't be in a hurry; wait till I give the young gentleman his medicine, before he takes breakfast." When he came into my room a moment later—I was trying to bathe my face—with a cheery "Good-morning, sir; I hope you rested well, sir; just take this if you please, sir;" and I had to obey; "We will send over after the doctor to come and attend you, sir."
I became alarmed at this, fearing that their kindly feeling toward the distressed refugee would cause them to introduce to me some Confederate surgeon from the neighborhood, who might make a correct "diagnosis" of my case and expose me. I begged that he would not put himself to that trouble; that I should go right into Richmond and would soon be among plenty of friends who would take care of me, etc. He rather insisted that it was their privilege to care for me, and that they could not consent to my undertaking to travel to Richmond until I had sufficiently recuperated. I thanked him; but am afraid that I did not convince the old gentleman that it was not necessary. He left me with the understanding that it should be "As mother says about it."
But the circumstances rather dissipated my appetite for the breakfast, as I saw at once that it would be necessary for me to get away from them as soon as possible. A new trouble seemed to rise from the kind attention of this old couple. While I feared capture and detection on my account, I actually think that I dreaded most of all lest an exposure should happen while I was enjoying their hospitality. I could not think of having to confront these kind people, if I should be brought to bay, so it was that I made up my mind that I must leave their house the very first opportunity. I had not been questioned in the least particular except as to my comfort and health. These people were too cultured and refined to pry into my history before granting any aid; it was enough for them that I had stated that I was a Maryland refugee, who had been wounded and was en route to Richmond to find friends. They saw my crippled condition, and they gave me all the aid and comfort that was in their power.
Seeing an old-fashioned inkstand and quill on a small table in my room, I had the aunty draw it up close to my bed, from which I was to eat my breakfast. The drawer contained a supply of paper, and, taking advantage of the first favorable opportunity, I wrote, when alone, the form of a pass, such as I had seen in general use, and signed it in an official way with the name of a well-known Chief-of-Staff.
There was unfortunately no red ink with which I could further add to its apparent official character. Looking about the room in the hope of finding some, my eyes rested on the bandage on my still bleeding arm. In another moment the pen was cleaned of all the black ink stains. I gently dipped it into my own bandaged wound and drew enough blood on the pen to write across the face of the pass, in back-hand writing (to distinguish it from the other) the almost cabalistic words in those days: Approved, and signed it in red with my blood.
The red ink "took beautifully."
At the next visit of my host I took great pleasure in exhibiting to him my "papers." He glanced at it approvingly, and no doubt the red ink indorsement was sufficient. Not deigning to examine farther, he said: "I don't want to question the character of a gentleman in my own house, sir, especially the word of a soldier, by Gad, sir"—he laid it aside, as of no consequence. I had told the same old story of the refugee so often, had the character down so fine, that I almost believed it myself. Of course, there were variations to suit the different circumstances, but it was nearly always a Maryland boy far away from home. I could not possibly disguise my voice and dialect sufficiently to pass in the South for a Southerner. I had been living in the South long enough to have learned the peculiarity of its people, and knew very well that I could not overcome the difficulty. So it was necessary, even at great risk to myself sometimes, to continue to play the dual character of a Maryland refugee and an English boy from Texas. There were a great many young people constantly coming over the line from Maryland into the South, and most of these, after a few days "outing," corresponded very well with my appearance or condition in this, that they were "busted," having sacrificed all but their lives for the cause, and were now hankering for a chance to offer that on the Southern altar. This immigration helped to further my projects.
I had told my kind host and hostess a tearful story of my sufferings; how my coat, and all the money that was in the pockets had been stolen while I was sick, and that I was now going to Richmond to replenish my wardrobe, just as soon as I could meet some friends, or hear from my home. This had the desired effect. Of course, I did not beg, neither did my kind friends see it in that light; but, all the same, when the good people attended their country church that Sunday they somehow interested the whole congregation, and a collection was lifted in a Virginia church for the benefit of a Yankee Spy. When they returned from church they brought with them several neighbors to dinner, and soon after I was waited upon by the old gentleman and his pastor, who, in the most considerate manner possible, presented me with an envelope, which he said: "Would be of service in making me comfortable until I met with friends."
Now the Good Spirit of my Sainted Mother in heaven, who had so often taken care of her wondering boy, certainly sent that earthly angel to me again, while I was alone in the midst of enemies on the Sunday. There was nothing that I so much needed as money, as, with it, I could hope to find means of escaping by some other route back to my home, and I would stay there, too. I was hardly allowed to thank the kind friends. After some further pleasant talk, which they indulged in to make me feel easy, I accepted their offer to the Rebel cause with the understanding that I should be able some day to repay it.
"Oh, no; some of our lady friends were anxious for an opportunity to show their devotion to the cause, and were pleased to be able to aid, above all things, a worthy refugee who is so far from home and sick."
Under the circumstances, what else could I do but take this advantage of the good people? With me it was a question of life and death; but I resolved in my heart, that if the time should ever come when our army entered that country, I should be on hand to plead for the protection of those who had unknowingly befriended a foe.
I began preparations to get away as soon as possible, by telling my kind people that it was necessary that I should "report" at once to certain officers in Richmond. I secured their consent to leave their care before I was able to travel.
It was agreed that I should be allowed to depart at once for Richmond, and, with as much feeling as if I were an only son being torn away from home to go to the war, I bade them all a hearty, thankful good-by, and walked slowly to the railroad station, which was some distance off, to get an evening train from Fredericksburg to Richmond.
The train came along in due time, and I got aboard with difficulty, because I was quite stiff and weak. Taking the first seat, in the rear of the car, I noticed at once, while being waited upon by the conductor, that there were in the forward part of the same car several officers in the Confederate gray uniform. This wasn't very reassuring, and rather unsettled my nerves, because, you see, I had, from my past few days' experience, imbibed a holy terror of anything in gray clothes. It was a Sunday, and, as they were probably off on a leave, they were engaged in their own pleasures and were not likely to disturb me. The conductor informed me, when I offered to pay my fare to Richmond, that he was required to report all soldiers traveling to a certain guard, and asked my name and regiment.
I assured him that I had a pass, and with that he walked off, and, in looking it up, I discovered that my blood approval had almost faded out.
I watched him, expecting that he would go straight to the Confederate officers; but he didn't, and I was greatly relieved to see him go out of the car, slam the door behind him, and disappear in the next car ahead. I began to wish that I had remained at the Hanover a little longer, and saw at once that the possession of the money had probably gotten me into a bad scrape, because without it I should have walked, even though every step was a pain. I reasoned correctly enough, however, that I should be safer in Richmond, in the midst of the crowded city, than alone among country people, who would soon become curious about my history, and I prayed that I might be allowed to pass in safety this new and unexpected danger of being reported by the conductor on arrival at Richmond.
While I was thinking over these uncomfortable prospects, the train was dashing along toward Richmond—only a short distance now—there was a whistle, and while the train perceptibly slackened I had time to decide that I better get off, and before the cars had stopped altogether I had slipped quietly out of the door and dropped myself down on the ties. I stood on the side of the track long enough to see a solitary passenger get aboard; the conductor jumped on, and the engine puffed off, leaving me standing alone on the track. I was again free—for how long I could not tell.
Still determined to take Richmond, I started on, wearily, to follow the train along the track, but being so weak and sore my progress was necessarily quite slow, but I persevered, and along about the time the evening lamps were being lit I walked into the outskirts of Richmond.