CHAPTER VIII.
IN THE ENEMY'S POWER.
But I will dwell no longer on the miseries of this dreary morning. Its hours went tediously by, marked by no special incidents till about noon. Just beyond Lafayette, Georgia, I was observed by some one on the watch for strangers. A party of pursuit numbering twenty or thirty was at once organized. I knew nothing of my danger till they were within fifty yards, when I heard them calling for me to stop.
A single glance showed my helplessness. I laid my hand instinctively on my revolver, but knew that fight was useless. Neither was flight possible. The country was open and I was too weary to run, even if some of the party had not been mounted and others armed with rifles and shot-guns. It was time to see what could be made of my plans carefully contrived for just such an emergency. Therefore, making a virtue of necessity, I turned round and demanded what they wanted, though I knew only too well. They said courteously enough that they wanted to talk with me awhile. Soon they came up, and a brisk little man who had the epaulets of a lieutenant, but whom they called "Major," began to ask questions. He was very bland, and apologized profusely for interrupting me, but said if I was a patriotic man (as he had no doubt I was) I would willingly undergo a slight inconvenience for the good of the Confederacy. I endeavored to emulate his politeness, begging him to proceed in the performance of his duty, and assuring him that he would find nothing wrong. He searched me very closely for papers, and examined my money and pistol, but found no ground for suspicion.
He next asked me who I was, where I came from, and where I was going. I expected all these questions in about that order, and answered them categorically. I told him I was a citizen of Kentucky, of Fleming County, who had become disgusted with the tyranny of the Lincoln government, and was ready to fight against it; that I came to Chattanooga, but would not enlist there because most of the troops were conscripts, and the few volunteers very poorly armed. I told him where I had lodged in Chattanooga, and many things about the troops there, using all the knowledge I had acquired of that character while riding on the cars to Marietta the preceding Friday. I had also heard many words of praise spoken of the First Georgia Regiment, and now told the major that I wished to join that noble organization. This flattered his State pride, but he asked me one question more,—why I had not gone directly to Corinth, where the First Georgia was, without coming to Lafayette, which was far out of the way. The question conveyed much information, as I did not before know that I was near Lafayette, or out of the road from Chattanooga to Corinth. I answered as well as I could by alleging that General Mitchel was said to be at Huntsville, and that I was making a circuit around to avoid the danger of falling into his hands.
This seemed to be perfectly satisfactory to the little man, and, turning to the attentive crowd, he said,—
"We may as well let this fellow go on, for he seems to be all right."
I was greatly rejoiced at these words, and cast about in my own mind to see if I could not gain something more before passing on the way. But my joy was premature. A dark-complexioned man on horseback, with his hat drawn over his brows, looked slowly up and drawled out,—
"Well, y-e-s! Perhaps we'd as well take him back to town, and if it's all right, maybe we can help him on to Corinth."
This was rather more help than I wanted, but there was no help for it. Besides, I reasoned that if I could keep on good terms with this party, I could get information and aid that would be invaluable towards my final escape. Nothing could really suit me much better than actually to be forwarded to Corinth and enlisted in the First Georgia. I knew the ordeal of questioning before that course was determined on would be very trying, but did not despair. If I could only have had some food and a few hours' rest!
They conducted me to the largest hotel of the place, where I was received with much ceremony, but they neglected to order dinner. I could have had drink enough, but was too prudent to touch it, even if I had not always been a teetotaler. Soon all the lawyers came in,—Lafayette is a county-seat,—and they all had liberty to question me. For four mortal hours, as I could see by a clock in the room, I conversed with them and answered questions. We talked of everything, and their questions grew more and more pointed. I answered as well as I could, and never let an opportunity pass to put in a question in turn, for it was much easier and less perilous to ask than answer. When I told them I was from Kentucky, they wished to know the county. I told them Fleming. They asked after the county-seat. This also I could give. But when they asked after adjoining counties I was sorely perplexed. One of them said it was singular a man could not bound his own county. I asked how many of them could bound the county we then were in. This question had a double purpose,—to gain time and information. They mentioned several and fell into a dispute, to settle which a map had to be produced. I got a look at it also,—a mere glance, for it was soon out of reach of my eager gaze; but I had seen much. Then they requested a narrative of my journey all the way from Kentucky. This I gave very easily and in great detail as long as it was on ground not accessible to my inquisitors. I told the truth as far as that would not be compromising, and then pieced out with inventions. The time I had spent on the train and in the woods were hardest to arrange for. I had to invent families with whom I had lodged; tell the number of children and servants at each place, with all kinds of particulars. I knew not how many of my auditors might be familiar with the country I was thus fancifully populating, and was careful not to know too much. I plead forgetfulness as often as that plea was plausible, but it would not do to use it too often. I might have refused to answer any question, but this would have been a tacit admission of some kind of guilt,—at least as good as a mob would have required. I might safely use any retorts and sharpness in conversation,—and I did talk with perfect freedom,—but I had the feeling that silence would have brought me in danger of the lash and the rope. Can the reader conceive of any situation more critical and perilous: starving and almost fainting from weariness, in the midst of a growing tavern crowd, questioned by acute lawyers, and obliged to keep every faculty on the alert, feeling that an incautious answer would probably lead to an instant and frightful death, and compelled under such pressure to tell falsehood after falsehood in unending succession?
But I had an increasing hope if my endurance continued to the end. At supper-time I meant to boldly demand food, and I felt sure of getting it. Besides, although they were clear that I was a suspicious character, they did not seem in any way to connect me with the great railroad expedition,—the only identification I feared. The very fact that I was so far away from the point where the train was abandoned was in my favor. Temporary confinement, enlistment in the army, anything they were likely to do was without terror as long as I was not connected with the daring adventure which had culminated the day before. They were somewhat perplexed by the assurance with which I spoke, and held numerous private consultations, only agreeing that the case needed further investigation.
Matters were in this position when a man, riding a horse covered with foam, dashed up to the door. He came from Ringgold and brought the news—of deeper interest to me than to any one else—that several of the bridge-burners had been taken near the place where they abandoned the train. When first apprehended they claimed to be citizens of Kentucky, from Fleming County; but on finding that this did not procure their release, they confessed being Ohio soldiers, sent by General Mitchel to burn the bridges on the Georgia State Railroad!
I have no reason to believe that any of those who were captured described their companions, or gave any information leading intentionally to their discovery. This was not needed. The unfortunate telling of the same fictitious story and the subsequent revelation of their true character on the part of some of the number who were captured close to the abandoned train, unmasked the others as well. After the first captures, which were made Saturday afternoon, whenever a fugitive was arrested who hailed from Fleming County, Kentucky, and was not able to prove his innocence, he was at once set down as a member of the railroad party.
The message from Ringgold ended all uncertainty in my own case. I was at once conducted, under strict guard, to the county jail.
The little major was my escort. He took advantage of his position to purloin my money, and then turned me over to the county jailer. That personage took my penknife and other little articles of property, then led me up-stairs, unfastened a door to the right, which led into a large room with barred windows, and having a cage, made of crossing iron bars, in the centre. He unlocked the small but heavy iron door of the cage and bade me enter. For the first time in my life I was to be locked in jail! My reflections could not have been more gloomy if the celebrated inscription had been written over the cage that Dante placed above the gate of hell, "All hope abandon, ye who enter here."
There did seem absolutely no hope for me. I was there as a criminal, and I knew that life was held too cheaply in the South for my captors to be fastidious about disposing of an unknown stranger. I had heard the message from Ringgold, and at once comprehended its bearing against me. Nothing save a confession of my true character as a soldier and my real business in the South would be credited. The probability was that even this would only make my doom the more speedy.
In that hour my most distressing thoughts were of the friends at home, and especially of my mother,—thinking what would be their sorrow when they heard of my ignominious fate,—if, indeed, they ever heard, for I had given "John Thompson" instead of my own name. That all my young hopes and ambitions, my fond dreams of being useful, should perish, as I then had no doubt they would, on a Southern scaffold, seemed utterly unbearable. But one moment only did these thoughts sweep over me; the next they were rejected by a strong effort of the will as worse than useless, and were followed by a sense of unutterable relief, for I could now rest. I had found a refuge even in prison, and needed no longer to keep every failing faculty at the utmost tension. The sweetness of rest for the moment overcame every other feeling save hunger, and that, too, was soon satisfied. The jailer brought some coarse food, which was devoured with exceeding relish. There was another prisoner in the same cage,—probably a detective, put in for the purpose of gaining my confidence and leading me to a confession. His first step was to plead ill health as an excuse for not eating his share of the prison food. I excused him, and ate his allowance as well as my own without difficulty.
He then wished to talk, and asked me some questions, but I was in no mood for further conversation. Being cold I borrowed his prison blankets, of which he had a plentiful supply, and, wrapping myself up in them, soon sank into a deep sleep—profound and dreamless—such as only extreme fatigue can produce. The quaint advice contained in the last words of my companion, however, lingered in my memory. Said he,—
"If you are innocent of the charge they make against you, there is no hope for you. You are much worse off than if you are guilty, for they will hang you on suspicion, while, if you are a soldier, you can tell what regiment you belong to, and claim protection as a United States prisoner of war."
My sleep lasted until long after dawn of the next morning. This repose, with the breakfast which followed, completely restored my strength, and with the elasticity of youth I began to revolve my situation and plan for the future. I was not long left in loneliness. The people of the village and surrounding country came in throngs to see a man who was supposed to belong to the daring band of engine thieves,—one of the most common names by which our party was recognized during our imprisonment. They were very free in their criticisms of my appearance, and some were very insulting in their remarks. But I would not allow myself to be drawn into conversation with them, for I had a momentous question to decide in my own mind.
The more I thought of the advice of my fellow-prisoner the more weighty did it appear. I did not value it because it was his opinion, but because it seemed reasonable. I also longed to assume my true name once more and my position as a soldier. The thought of perishing obscurely and in disguise was most revolting. Besides, I felt that a soldier had more chances of life than a suspected wanderer. Our government might put forth energetic efforts to save those who were in such deadly peril. I remembered, with increasing hope, that the Federals, at this very time, held a number of rebel prisoners in Missouri, who had been captured while disguised in Federal uniform inside of our lines, engaged in an attempt very similar to our own,—the burning of some railroad bridges. Why might not these be held as hostages to assure our safety, or even exchanged for us? To entitle me to any help from our government I must be William Pittenger, of the Second Ohio Volunteer Infantry, and not John Thompson, of Kentucky. My mind was soon made up,—the more readily that I heard my citizen visitors talking about the capture of several others of our party, who had all admitted that they were United States soldiers. They were influenced, no doubt, by the same course of reasoning that I have indicated. I believe this decision ultimately saved my life.
But there was room for choice as to the manner of making my confession. I told the jailer that I had an important communication for the authorities, and he reported the matter to some person of influence, who summoned a vigilance committee, and ordered me before it.
I found them prepared to renew the examination of the previous day. They had the same lawyers in waiting, and, indeed, all the principal men of the town. When their preliminaries were over, they asked the nature of the communication I wished to make, and hoped that I could throw some light on the mysterious capture of the railroad train. I said,—
"Gentlemen, the statements I made yesterday were intended to deceive." ("So we suspected," said one of the lawyers, sotto voce.) "I will now tell you the truth."
The clerk got his pen ready to take down the information, and the roomful of people assumed an attitude of deepest attention.
"Go on, sir; go on," said the president.
"I am ready," said I, "to give my true name, and the division and regiment of the United States army to which I belong, and to tell why I came so far into your country."
"Just what we want to know, sir. Go on," said they.
"But," I returned, "I will make no statement whatever until taken before the regular military authority of this department."
Their disappointment and surprise at this announcement were almost amusing. Curiosity was raised to the highest pitch, and did not like to postpone its gratification. They employed every threat and argument in their power to make me change my decision,—some of them saying that I should be hanged to the nearest tree if I did not. But I knew my ground. I told them that though an enemy I was a soldier, possessed of important military information, and, if they were loyal to their cause, it was their duty to take me at once before, some regular military authority. The leading men admitted the justice of this view, and when they found that I would reveal nothing there, they made arrangements to take me to Chattanooga. This was distant about twenty miles from Lafayette. Ringgold, near which we abandoned the train, was about the same distance to the east. In that long and terrible night of wandering I had travelled twenty miles in a straight line, and, with my meanderings, must have walked more than fifty.
My reason for postponing my confession until reaching Chattanooga was that I wanted to get out of the hands of the mob as soon as possible. There was no body of soldiers or responsible authority in Lafayette. If I had perished there no one, in any contingency, could have been called to account for it. Where a department commander was stationed I would have to reckon with him alone, which was far preferable, and I counted on the curiosity of the mob to preserve me as long as my secret was not revealed.
I was remanded to the jail to wait for the preparation of a suitable escort. After dinner about a dozen men entered my room, and guarded me out to the public square. There a carriage was waiting, in which I was placed, and then commenced the complicated process of tying and chaining.
By this time a great mob had gathered, completely filling the square, and in the most angry and excited condition. Some persons questioned me in loud and imperious tones, demanding why I came down there to fight them, and adding every possible word of insult. I heard many significant hints about getting ropes, and the folly of taking me to Chattanooga when I could be hanged just as well there.
For a little time I made no answer to any question, and paid as little attention as possible to what was said. But the tumult increased, and the mob grew so violent in its denunciations that I feared a passive policy would no longer serve. Though I was being very effectually bound, my tongue was still at liberty. I had no experience in managing mobs, but I felt, by a kind of instinct, that mobs and dogs are very similar,—neither likes to attack a person who quietly and good-humoredly faces them. I had proved this with savage dogs several times for mere sport, but this was a more serious matter. I was not much in the humor of talking, but it was better to be led by policy than by inclination. Selecting, therefore, some of the nearest persons, I spoke to them. They answered with curses, but in the very act of cursing they grew milder and more willing to converse. I answered their innuendoes cheerfully, jesting, whenever opportunity offered, about the manner I was being secured, the bracelets they were giving me, the care they had for a "Yankee," as they persisted in calling me, and tried to look and speak as if the whole matter were a mere comedy. I soon got some of the laughers on my side, and before long had the satisfaction of hearing one man say, regretfully, "Pity he is a Yankee, for he seems to be a good fellow," and another agree to the sentiment. Yet I was not sorry to hear the driver announce that we were now ready to start.
The manner in which I was tied indicated that my captors intended to "make assurance doubly sure, and take a bond of fate." One end of a heavy chain was put around my neck, and fastened there with a padlock; the other end was passed behind the carriage-seat, and hitched to my foot in the same manner, the chain being extended to its full length while I was in a sitting position, thus rendering it impossible for me to rise. My hands were tied together, my elbows were pinioned to my sides by ropes, and, to crown all, I was firmly bound to the carriage-seat, while two horsemen, armed with pistols and carbines, followed the carriage at a short distance, and my evil genius, the little major, took the seat beside me, likewise armed to the teeth. I ought to have felt secure, but did not. The same exaggerated caution was often noticed afterwards.
As we left Lafayette behind, the sky, which had been clouded for days, suddenly cleared. The sun shone in beauty, and smiled on the first faint dawnings of spring that lay in tender green on the surrounding hills. What would I not have given for such a day forty-eight hours earlier! But even then it was very welcome, and my spirit grew more light as I breathed the fresh air and listened to the singing of the birds.
My companions were quite talkative, and I responded as well as I could. They even tried to make me think that the extraordinary manner in which I was tied and guarded—with which I reproached them—was a compliment, showing that they had formed a high opinion of my daring character! Their conversation was pleasant and courteous enough, except that when they passed houses they would cry out, "We've got a live Yankee here!" Then men, women, and children would rush to the door, staring as if they saw some great monster, and asking,—
"Whar did you ketch him? Goin' to hang him when you get him to Chattanooga?" and similar expressions without number.
I cared little for this at first, but its perpetual recurrence was not without its effect in making me think that they really would hang me. In fact, my prospects were far from encouraging; yet I considered it my duty to keep up my spirits and hold despair at arm's length while any possible ground for hope remained. The afternoon wore slowly away as we journeyed amid grand and romantic scenery that in any other circumstances would have been enthusiastically enjoyed. But now my thoughts were otherwise engaged.
I was not so much afraid of death in itself as of the manner in which it was likely to come. Death amid the smoke and excitement and glory of battle never had seemed half so terrible as it now did when it stood, an awful spectre, beside the gallows! And even sadder it was to think of friends who would count the weary months, waiting and longing for my return, till hope became torturing suspense, and suspense deepened into despair. These and kindred thoughts were almost too much for my fortitude; yet, setting my teeth hard, I resolved to endure patiently to the end.
The sun went down, and night came on,—deep, calm, and clear. One by one the stars twinkled into light. I gazed upon their beauty with new feelings, as I wondered whether a few more suns might not set me free from the short story of earthly things and make me a dweller beyond the sky. A spirit of prayer and the faint beginnings of trust stirred within me. Hitherto I had been looking at passing events alone, and refusing to contemplate the great new experiences death would open. But now my thoughts took a new direction. God was helping me, and inclining my heart upward. I was to pass through many more terrible scenes and taste bitter sorrows before I could recognize His voice and fully repose on His love. I was not then a member of church nor a professor of religion. I believed the doctrines of Christianity, and purposed some day to give them practical attention. It had been easy to postpone this purpose, and, latterly, the confusion and bustle of camp-life had almost driven the subject out of my mind. But now God appeared very near, and, even amid foes and dangers, I seemed to have hold of some hand, firm but kind, beyond the reach of vision. What influence was most powerful in turning my thoughts upward I cannot tell,—whether it was the familiar outlines of the grand constellations, the quiet and stillness all around, so congenial to exhausted nature after the excitement of the last few days, or a yet more direct message from the Highest,—I only know that the memory of that evening, when I was carried, chained, down the long hill to the valley in which Chattanooga lies, there to meet an unknown fate, is one of the sweetest of my life. My babbling guards had subsided into silence, and, as we wended along through the gathering darkness, high and noble thoughts of the destiny of man filled my breast, and death appeared only a mere incident of existence,—the gate out of one department of being into another. I was nerved for any fate.
It may be thought strange that in these moments of reflection and spiritual yearning I had no feeling of remorse for any of the deceptions of which I had been guilty. But I had not. It did not even occur to me to consider them as sins at all. If necessary or expedient I would then have added to them the sanction of an oath with equal recklessness. Some sophistry—felt rather than reasoned out—about the lawfulness of deceiving or injuring public enemies or rebels in any possible way—a conviction that they had forfeited everything, even their right to be told truth—must have controlled me. Before starting on this expedition I had placed the highest value on truth, and would have regarded a wilful lie with scorn and loathing. But I accepted deception as one of the incidents of the enterprise, and all sense of its wrongfulness passed away, and did not return until long afterwards.
We arrived at Chattanooga while a feeble glow of the soft spring twilight lingered in the air. The headquarters of General Leadbetter, then district commander, was in one of the principal hotels of the town, and we at once drove there. I was left in the carriage while the major ascended to inform him of the arrival.
The town had already been informed. The curiosity to see one of the men who had captured the train and frightened the women and children of Chattanooga into the woods only two days before was intense, and a very large crowd soon assembled. They behaved as such assemblages usually did, jeering and hooting, and calling me by every epithet of reproach the language afforded,—wanting to know why I came down there to burn their property and murder them and their children as well as free their negroes. To these multitudinous questions and assertions I made no answer. I was much amused (afterward!) by their criticisms of my appearance. One would say that "it was a pity so young and clever-looking a man should be caught in such a scrape." Another, of more penetrating cast, "could tell that he was a rogue by his looks,—probably came out of prison in his own country." Another was surprised that I could hold up my head and look around on honest men, arguing that such brazen effrontery in one so young was a proof of enormous depravity of heart. I gave no opinion on the subject. Indeed, I was not asked.
There was one man I noticed in particular. He was tall and venerable-looking; had gray hair, gray beard, a magnificent forehead, and, altogether, a commanding and intellectual expression. He was treated with marked deference by the throng, and as they parted and allowed him to come up to my carriage, the thought arose, "Surely I will receive some sympathy from that kind and noble-looking man."
His first question confirmed my hope. Said he,—
"How old are you?"
I answered, "Twenty-two, sir."
Gradually his lip wreathed itself into a curl of unutterable scorn, and, gazing steadily on me, he slowly uttered,—
"Poor young fool! And I suppose you were a school-teacher or something of that kind in your own land! And you thought you would come down here and rob us, and burn our houses, and murder us, did you? Now let me give you a little advice: if you ever get home again, (but you never will!) do try, for God's sake, and have a little better sense and stay there." Then he turned contemptuously on his heel and strode away. The rabble rewarded him with a cheer. I could never find out who he was; but after that I looked for no more sympathy in that crowd.
My conductor now returned and escorted me into the presence of General Leadbetter. I was glad of the change, though there was little about this man to inspire confidence. They said he was from the North originally,—a native of Maine, I believe. His habits were so intemperate that a Confederate captain afterwards informed me that he always lived in one of two states,—either dead drunk or gentlemanly drunk. His record was, even this early in the war, of a very ill character, for he had been the principal agent in hanging a considerable number of East Tennessee Union men under circumstances of great barbarity. To this, it was said, he owed his present position. Such was the man in whose hands my fate now rested.
All the facts concerning him I learned afterwards, except one that was apparent when I entered the room. He was considerably under the influence of liquor, though not to an extent which interfered with the transaction of business. He began to question me, and without any regard for truth I gave him the story that I supposed would be best for my own interest. I told him I was a United States soldier, giving my name, company, and regiment correctly; but told him I was sent on this expedition without my previous consent, and was ignorant of where I was going or what I was to do, which I only learned as fast as it was to be executed. He next inquired who was our engineer, but I refused to tell. I afterwards found that they were exceedingly anxious to discover the name of the person who ran our train, imagining him to be some official connected with the Georgia State Railroad. He then asked after the purpose of the expedition. I pleaded ignorance as far as any positive information went; but as this did not satisfy him, I gave him my inferences. There was no betrayal of Union interests in this, for all I told him was what any thoughtful person, map in hand, would have supposed,—the destruction of bridges and the capture of Chattanooga and the occupation of East Tennessee. He was very attentive, and said,—
"But has Mitchel men enough for all that? My spies report that he has not more than ten thousand infantry and three regiments of cavalry."
This was so near the truth that I did not wish to confirm it. So I took another departure from accuracy, and said,—
"That must refer only to his advance-guard, and leaves out of account that part of his command which has not yet left Nashville."
"What!" he returned, "is there a reserve army?"
I assured him there was, and that with the regiments on their way from the West and Northwest, sixty or seventy thousand men would be at Nashville for Mitchel's disposal in three or four weeks!
Leadbetter then asked, "What do you soldiers think is going to be done with such a large army?"
"We are confident," I answered, "that Chattanooga will first be captured, then Atlanta, and afterwards Mitchel may probably strike for some point on the coast, so as to cut the Confederacy in halves."
The general rubbed his forehead for a moment, then exclaimed,—
"It's a grand plan. They can do it if they have men enough. But I had no idea that Mitchel had such backing."
How I did wish that he had! but I knew better.
Then wheeling his chair directly in front, and fixing his eye steadily on me, he continued,—
"I am much obliged to you for this information. Now, sir, I want you to tell me just how many men you had on that train, and to describe each one so that I may know them when I get hold of them."
This was too much! I answered, "General, I have freely told you whatever concerns only myself, because I thought you ought to know that I am a soldier under the protection of the United States government. But I am not base enough to describe my comrades."
"Oh!" sneered he, "I don't know that I ought to have asked you that."
"I think not, sir," I replied.
"Well," retorted he, "you need not be so particular. I know all about it. Your leader's name is Andrews. What kind of a man is he?"
I was thunderstruck! How should he have Andrews' name, and know him to be our leader? I never imagined what I afterwards found to be the true cause,—that Andrews had been captured, with documents in his possession which implicated him so completely that he acknowledged his name and the fact of his leadership. I had every confidence that he, at least, would escape and devise some means for our relief. So I answered boldly,—
"I can tell you only one thing about him, and that is, he is a man you will never catch."
As I said this I thought I noticed a peculiar smile on the general's face, but he only replied,—
"That will do for you;" and turning to a captain who stood by, continued: "Take him to the hole,—you know where that is."
With a military salute, the captain took me out of the room. There was an explanation of the general's smile! Before the door, heavily ironed, stood Andrews, waiting for an audience, and with him Marion Ross and John Wollam. I did not think it prudent to recognize them, nor they to recognize me, so we passed each other as strangers.