THE LOTTERY OF DEATH.
AN EPISODE IN GUERRILLA WARFARE.
While on a trip to Europe last summer, I noticed in the smoking-room of the good steamer Servia a rather portly, middle-aged gentleman, with a mild expression of countenance, and certainly no trace of the soldier in his bearing; and yet he was the hero of a thrilling adventure. I was introduced to him by one of the officers of the steamer, and found him to be an insurance agent in a large way, going abroad for needed rest—Mr Balcom by name. In the course of a conversation on personal courage, one evening, over our after-dinner cigars, my new-found friend related the following interesting adventure:
You know, in the late war between the North and South, nearly all our able-bodied men on both sides of the line were more or less soldiers of some sort. I was myself a Captain and ‘Commissary of Subsistence’ in the United States Volunteers, and was attached to a cavalry brigade in the army of the Potomac. In the Fall of 1864, my brigade was located in camp for the winter about four or five miles to the south of Winchester, Virginia. As a ‘commissary,’ I had constantly to pass with my train of wagons from the town to camp; but so confident was I that no danger could possibly befall me on that short jaunt, actually all within our own lines, that I carried neither sword nor pistol. Well, one pleasant afternoon in the latter part of November, as I was riding with my orderly, a good soldier, by the name of Leonard, at the head of the wagon-train, wearying of the slow progress made by the mule-teams, I placed the train in charge of the commissary sergeant, and rode on ahead, followed by my orderly only. I had gone little more than half-way to camp—the road we followed became wooded by young timber and underbrush—when, as I turned a bend in the road, I saw four or five mounted men about a quarter of a mile in advance of us. Calling my orderly to my side, I asked him what he thought of them.
‘I guess they are some of our boys, sir. They have our uniform on, and are too far inside of our lines to be “Johnnies”’ (a term applied to the Southerners).
This was my own idea; but still, I seemed intuitively to feel that all was not right. These men evidently saw or heard us, for, turning their horses’ heads toward camp, they marched slowly onward. This at once disarmed me of all doubt, for I knew camp was near, and if they were not ‘all right,’ they would hardly venture that way; so I resumed my canter, and soon overtook my fellow-travellers. When I approached, they filed to each side of the road, as if to let me pass, and I kept on. But no sooner was my orderly and myself past their last file of men, than in an instant we found ourselves confronted by half-a-dozen pistols and the sharp command, ‘Halt!’ (A sixth man had come out of the bush.)
‘Now, you Yanks want to keep your mouths shut, and do as you are told, or it will be all up with you,’ said the commander. ‘Forward—trot—march!’ and away we swept at a swinging trot, Leonard and I completely surrounded by this unwelcome bodyguard, and well covered by their pistols.
About a thousand yards we trotted on, and then swept into a narrow road, more bridle-path than road, along which we kept for a mile or so, when the command ‘Halt!’ was again given. Leonard and I were ordered to dismount and give up our arms. I had none; but my orderly was soon deprived of his. We were again put upon our horses and strapped to the saddles in not too gentle a manner. I ventured to ask where we were going to and who my captors were; and was told we were being taken to Mosby’s camp by some of his men; and furthermore, I was ordered to keep absolute silence on pain of death. From this I inferred that we had to pass very near some portion of our own camp or pickets, and for a moment I hoped some chance might yet arise for escape. But during the march we saw no soldier, or even camp-fire, and this road seemed specially devised to allow free passage from the front to the rear of our lines by any person who knew it. In about an hour or so we came once more upon the highway. Night had fallen, but a young moon partially illuminated the road.
The commander, a lieutenant of these free riders, reined his horse to my side, and said we had passed the Yankee lines, and I could now speak if I chose. I merely said the straps hurt me which bound me to the saddle. We halted, and Leonard and I were untied, with a caution that any attempt to escape would only end in our death. Two of the guerrillas still led our horses, and the commander gave the order to gallop. We moved rapidly, until about eight P.M. For some time we had been ascending, and then slackening our pace a little. Suddenly, before and below us, upon a plain of no great extent, I saw a camp of from five to six hundred men. ‘Here we are,’ said the lieutenant; and in a very short time Leonard and I found ourselves under strong guard in the headquarters of Colonel Mosby at Rectortown. Under the same guard were some score more of ‘Yankee’ prisoners. Supper being over, we were given a little cold ‘hoe’-cake and the run of a pail of water for our share.
I found that some of these my fellow-prisoners were infantry-men; and one lad of about fourteen was a drummer of infantry. The majority, however, were cavalry-men caught wandering too far from their commands. Apparently, I was the only commissioned officer; but as I wore a private’s overcoat, my rank was not known to my fellow-prisoners for some time.
The sentinels about us paced their beats; some of the men were asleep, and I was sitting on a log smoking, when, by the dim light of the fire, I saw a mounted figure approach. The figure halted at the guard; and presently the sergeant in charge called out: ‘Fall in—fall in, you Yankees. Hurry up. Get into line there.’ Finally, all being awake and placed to suit him, he turned, and saluting the horseman, said: ‘The prisoners are paraded, sir.’
‘How many have you?’ asked the rider.—‘Twenty-two in all, sir.’ And then I felt we were in the presence of that terror of the valley, Colonel John S. Mosby, the best provost-marshal Sheridan had in the Shenandoah.
As Mosby advanced nearer to the camp-fire, I was struck with the lack of daring in his face and manner; but I knew he had it, from his past career. His manner was not ferocious or tyrannical, and he quietly turned upon us his eye, which seemed to see the whole of us at a glance. He spoke as follows: ‘Men, your commander has seen fit to refuse all quarter to my soldiers when captured, and hangs or shoots them on the spot. I do not approve of this kind of warfare; but I must retaliate; and as I capture two of your army to every one you get of my command, that is not difficult. Just now, the balance is against you, and five of you twenty-two prisoners must die.’
You may imagine all were wide awake at this announcement.
‘It is not for me to order out any five of you to execution, so the fairest way will be for you to draw for your lives.’ Turning to the sergeant, he continued: ‘Get twenty-two pieces of paper prepared—five numbered from one to five. Let the other seventeen be blank, and have each man draw a ticket; and you supervise the drawing.’
The sergeant hastened away for the paper and a lantern. Hitherto, I had said nothing to any one of my rank; but now, throwing aside my overcoat, I stepped forward, and addressing the mounted officer, asked him if he was Colonel Mosby. The reply came: ‘That is my name, sir.’
I was boiling over with indignation at this bloody action of the guerrilla, and I said: ‘I am an officer and a gentleman; these men are regularly enlisted soldiers of the United States army; surely you are not going to treat them as spies or dogs, because they have fallen into your hands through the fortune of war. What you propose, sir, is not justice; it is assassination.’
I shall never forget the look on Mosby’s face as he turned toward me, and said: ‘What justice would I get if I fell into the hands of your soldiers? I tell you, sir, I value the life of the poorest of my comrades far more than that of twenty Yankees. But I shall only retaliate in kind—man for man, and that I will have. I was not aware, sir, that you were an officer; but surely you can ask no better treatment from me than I give your men?’
I said I wanted nothing more than he would grant to all, and stepped back into my place in the ranks.
The sergeant returned just then, and the awful ‘Lottery of Death,’ as I have ever since called it, began. When my turn came, I drew from the hat a piece of paper; but I could not look at it—my heart stood still, my knees trembled, my hand faltered; but suddenly, as from a horrible dream, I was awakened by the word ‘Blank!—Fall back, sir.’
I was not to die by rope or bullet, at anyrate for a time. I cannot describe to you my terror, my abject fear; nor do I know how I appeared to others; but I do know I shall never suffer the fear of death again so keenly.
The drawing was completed; the five victims separated from us; when, suddenly, a boy’s voice was heard piteously asking for pardon, mercy, anything but death. Colonel Mosby looked toward the little drummer-boy, for he it was, and said: ‘Sergeant, is that boy one of the condemned?’
‘Yes, colonel,’ replied the sergeant.
‘Send him back in the ranks again; he is too young to die yet.’—And, ‘Captain,’ turning to me, ‘since you are so much afraid to die, we will give you another chance.—Sergeant, place two papers—one numbered, the other blank—in your hat, and let the captain and the man next him draw again.’
At this second drawing, although I had only one chance in two of escaping, I did not feel that abject fear that first overcame me, and I stepped forward when ordered and drew another blank piece of paper. My feeling was one of intense pity for the poor fellow who drew the fatal number, and I hardly heard Mosby say: ‘Well, you are a lucky fellow, captain.’
We were removed from the condemned that night. After two or three days, with the aid of some friendly negroes and some burnt cork, I made my escape, reaching our own lines in nine days.
Of the five condemned, two escaped, one by feigning death after being shot, and the other was rescued by a friendly negro before death ensued. These two men reached our army later on, and corroborated my strange story of the ‘Lottery of Death.’ I think you will agree with me that I had cause for showing fear at least once in my life.