Capturing a Locomotive: A History of Secret Service in the Late War.

by William Pittenger

CHAPTER XIX.

FROM ATLANTA TO RICHMOND.

"When we resolved to break jail it was our firm belief that failure or recapture meant death. Yet no sooner was the excitement over, and we quietly back in prison, than hope began to whisper once more. Possibly there was some mistake in the report which led to our desperate effort, or, if it was indeed true, the escape of the larger part of the band might derange the plan, or change the purpose of holding another court-martial. It is sure that our anticipations of worse treatment were not realized. I cannot account for the agreeable surprise we experienced in this particular. Those who are convinced that the mitigations of our lot were caused by any representations made by the Union authorities at Washington after our comrades had escaped must be mistaken, because the change took place before one of the fugitives had reached the Union lines. Wilson and Wood at Washington, as well as the others of our number who escaped, did make prompt representations to our government, which may afterwards have been of service to us. But these could scarcely have affected us during our stay in Atlanta, as the time was not sufficient. Possibly, it was thought by the Confederates that the little remnant of the band, which had already suffered so much, was not worth persecuting further. However it is explained, the succeeding two months we remained in Atlanta, after the attempted escape, was the least rigorous imprisonment endured by us in the South.

Colonel Lee thought the jail no longer safe, and ordered us to be taken to the city barracks. These were in the centre of Atlanta, looking out on one of its busiest public squares. Our room was also far better than had been given to us before. It was large, well lighted, and provided with a great open fireplace, in which a fire was kept continually burning. Our door was never closed, but a sentinel stood in it, watching us, and the gas was burned all the night. The Confederate soldiers roomed all around us, and the whole large house—a former hotel, I think—was surrounded by a line of sentinels. We were in the second story, and our windows were not barred. We could stand by them, and watch the busy throng outside for hours at a time. All our surroundings were now of a soldierly and civilized character. Our treatment was also more courteous and considerate than formerly.

Probably much, if not all, of this change for the better may be attributed to the character of the man in whose charge we were now placed. Jack Wells, as he was familiarly called, had been a lieutenant in the regular army of the United States before the war, and had not forgotten the traditions of the service. He had no feeling of resentment against us; on the contrary, would come around to our room and talk by the hour, telling us some great stories of his adventures and receiving as great in return. His worst fault was intemperance, being frequently half drunk and not seldom going beyond that point. In these cases, and when in a communicative mood, he would tell us that he did not care a cent which side whipped in the war,—that he only held his present position to avoid being conscripted, and because he preferred having a commission as a volunteer to being compelled to fight as a private conscript. But he was an excellent disciplinarian, and we nowhere had less chance of escape than from under his watchful eye and among his well-drilled soldiers. He would allow no trifling with his authority, and was ready to punish with fearful severity, as some of our Tennessee comrades—who were citizens, not soldiers—found. In fact, he seemed to care very little for those who were not soldiers.

One of these men—Mr. Pierce, who had accompanied us from Knoxville—one day threw his allowance of provisions back again into the tray in which it was being passed around, with a gesture of contempt, but without a word being spoken. The supply was very scanty and bad; but, as we could get no better, we only thought that the old man was very foolish thus to give up the little that he was offered. But this was not the end. In a few minutes a file of guards entered, took Pierce out, and tied his hands before his knees, with a stick inserted across under the knees and over the arms, in that most uncomfortable position known to soldiers as "bucking." They left him in the cold hall all night. He was able to eat his morning allowance without difficulty!

The next Tennessee sufferer was a Mr. Barker. One of the guards often used to tease the prisoners by asking them how they liked being shut up in a prison, "playing checkers with their noses on the windows," etc. A complaint to the commander would probably have caused a cessation of such taunts, which it was foolish to notice in any way. But Barker answered, that he need not feel so proud, for he would certainly be driven before long to work like a slave in the cotton-fields, to help pay the expenses of the war. The guard reported the insult, and Barker was taken to the punishment-room and there suspended, head downwards, till he fainted. This was repeated two or three times, and he was then put into a dark cell, only four feet square, without food, for twenty-four hours.

I was personally very fortunate here in receiving the favor of the commander, which I used to the advantage of my comrades as well as I was able. Having nothing to read, for the kind minister had not visited us since the attempted escape, and being determined not to be idle, I began to practise short-hand regularly each day. I had learned it before, and now wrote with a pencil on any scraps of paper I could find. Wells watched me while thus engaged, made a good deal of sport of the "spider tracks," but came in the next day and asked if I would not do a little writing for him. I was perfectly willing, provided it was not contrary to my allegiance to the United States. He laughed at the qualification, and showed me that it was the daily prison reports that he wanted made out. I did not see that this kind of work would do any harm, and undertook it. His office adjoined the prison room, and he gave orders that I was to be allowed to go from one room to the other at pleasure, but no farther. In fact, when in the office, there was always a special guard standing at the door. A hundred schemes of escape flashed through my brain, founded upon the additional privileges I now had; but I soon found that the guards were instructed to watch me all the more closely on account of my license. Wells himself laughed, and said that he would ask no pledges of me, for it was his business to keep us, and ours to get away—if we could! The qualification was well put. The only time the eye of a guard was off me day or night was while in the office, and that had only one door, by which the guard who brought me to the office always stood till ready to take me back to the common prison room. Yet I hoped something might occur by which I could help my comrades and myself.

One day I had the heartfelt pleasure of saving a man's life. While I was in Wells' office writing a requisition for provisions a person dressed in the uniform of a rebel officer was brought in under arrest. He appeared to be very drunk, but remonstrated so very hard against being put into the rooms which had common prisoners that Wells consented to let him stay in his office, to get sober enough to give an account of himself. He had five hundred dollars in gold, which had been taken from him,—a marvellous possession, which Wells asked me to feel the weight of,—but as the officer furiously demanded his money, it was given back to him. As the charge against him had not yet been made known, Wells believed that it was only that of drunkenness,—an offence with which he had great sympathy. When the man got his money he sank down on a lounge in a drunken stupor. Wells had some business to transact, and soon went out. Sergeant White, the second in command, was with us, but he, too, soon took his departure. I was busy writing, but, hearing a step, I looked up and saw the stranger approaching me. A startling change had taken place. No trace of drunkenness was visible, but in place of it a terrible expression of anxiety and determination. I glanced about the desk to see that the heavy inkstand was in easy reach, for I had never seen a more desperate face. He leaned over my chair, and whispered, "You are a prisoner?"

"Yes, sir."

"One they call engine thieves?"

I nodded assent.

"I know you," said he; "I know all about you. I was here when your comrades were hung. Brave men they were, and the cruel deed will yet be avenged. I am not afraid to trust you. The commander here don't know who I am yet, but he will soon learn, and then I will have to die, for I am a spy from the Federal army." Then he added, with a most appealing look, "Can't you help me to escape, before it is too late?"

I was amazed, and for a moment doubtful; but a few hasty questions, put to test his knowledge of the Federal army and his present character, set my doubts at rest. Then I asked, "What can I do for you?"

He answered, "Can't you write me a pass and sign the commander's name to it?"

I shook my head. If a pass written in such circumstances had been worth anything, I would probably have written one for myself and comrades before that time. Wells, who did not trust me at all, had guarded that very point in his orders.

Then my new friend proposed that we together break past the guard and run for it. I had no wish for such a trial with only one to help. There was my guard at the office-door; two more guards in the hall; a barrack-room, with always a dozen or more soldiers in it, at the head of the stairway; two guards at the front door; and a line of sentinels around the whole building.

But as I glanced around the room my eye rested on a fine overcoat of Wells' lying on the foot of the office bed, and an idea struck me. The prisoner was a short, thick man, about the same size and build of Wells. Said I, "Take that overcoat," pointing to it, "and throw it around you, and just walk out as independently as though you owned the entire establishment. It is now nearly dark, and the chances are that you will not be halted at all."

His countenance lighted at once. "I'll do it!" he exclaimed, with suppressed eagerness. To fold himself in the cloak, nearly crush my hand as he said "Thank you! Thank you!" and to open the door and walk out, was the work of but a moment. I listened as his firm step died away along the hall, but there was no challenge, no sound that betokened any discovery. The soldiers, seeing the familiar coat, must have supposed its rightful owner in it, and allowed it to pass unhindered. A moment after Sergeant White came in. I feared he would notice the prisoner's absence, but he did not. I got him engaged in story-telling as soon as possible, to postpone any inquiries. For some five minutes I succeeded very well, when Wells entered, cast an uneasy glance about the room, and at once exclaimed, "Sergeant, where is that officer? Did you put him in another room?"

The sergeant answered that he had been out, and that when he returned he saw nothing of the man.

It was Wells' turn to be startled now. He sprang over to me and demanded sternly, "Pittenger, where's that officer?"

I was not in the least terrified. In fact, I was greatly amused, and for the moment forgetting the purpose formed two months before, of always avoiding untruth as well as all other evil things, I answered, "What officer?"

"That officer I put in here."

"Oh! that drunken fellow?"

"Yes; where is he?"

"The last I saw of him, he picked up his coat and said he was going to supper."

"Going to supper, was he? Ho! I see! Sergeant, run to the guards and tell them if they let him out I'll have every one of them hung up by the heels."

Wells was in a towering passion at once. The alarm was sounded, and for a few minutes a terrible commotion prevailed, but nothing was seen of the drunken fugitive, whose importance began to be known. Soon Wells returned, and demanded in a peremptory tone, "Pittenger, why did not you give the alarm when he started?'"

I answered carelessly, "Oh! I did not know that my business in the South was to guard prisoners."

"Of course not," he returned; "but I wish you had called me this time."

Then after a moment's silence, he continued, "You said he took his coat. Had he a coat?"

"I suppose so, sir," I returned, "or he would not have taken it."

"He brought none in. Where did he get it?"

"Off the foot of that bed."

Wells sprang to his feet as quickly as if he had been galvanized, kicked the chair on which he had been sitting clear across the room, and exclaimed, "My overcoat! sure as ——! Worth eighty dollars! The villain!"

No intelligence of this spy reached Atlanta while we remained there. Wells told me that there was no doubt he had gotten entirely away.

While in this place, I had the opportunity of learning that there were many lovers of the old Union in Atlanta. These visited us, and, although always in the presence of the guards, managed to express their kindness in very tangible ways. They told us much of their hopes, and of the strength they numbered. A certain Dr. Scott was very liberal in his contributions to our wants. I had afterwards the pleasure of repaying his kindness, when he had been forced to flee for his life, and arrived destitute in the North. The money we thus obtained, together with some small presents Captain Wells bestowed, when pleased with the writing I did for him, gave us the means of living almost luxuriously. One dainty I remember with especial delight. Sweet potatoes were very abundant and cheap, and we were allowed to buy as many as our means permitted, and roast them in the ashes of the wood fire which always glowed on our hearth. The great mealy potatoes, raked out and dusted off and eaten hot, constituted a feast good enough for a king! I have never since found any sweet potatoes equal to those we devoured by the bushel in the old Atlanta barracks. This abundant living made some amends for the six months of famine that preceded it, and gave strength, which was still to be sorely tested before the day of deliverance. The memory of those beautiful autumnal days, when we could look from our unbarred windows upon the sky and the street, when we could gather around the fire and under the gas-jet in the evening, when hunger no longer pinched, and when health, which I had long missed, came back, when some consideration was shown for us even by our guards, and when visitors often whispered words or gave signs of sympathy for our cause as well as for ourselves, is not altogether unpleasant. True, we were still prisoners, and our fate as uncertain as ever; but it was easy to persuade ourselves that these more pleasant surroundings were the promise of still greater good.

Our religious exercises were here continued as persistently and publicly as in the jail. There were serious difficulties to overcome. Some of our own party seemed to consider that our release from the dark cells of a criminal prison removed the necessity of morning and evening prayer. We were not alone, and the soldiers who were "off duty" came to our door when it was first reported that "the Yankees were having prayer-meeting," and greatly annoyed us by interruptions and by a continual series of comments upon the exercises. We endured this for a time, but at last I appealed to Wells. He gave us protection from the guard, saying that he could not stand praying himself, but if we could get any good out of it we were welcome, and should not be disturbed. The opposition of the prisoners soon gave way also, and our morning and evening devotions were seasons of great interest. Even prisoners from other rooms came to their open doors that they might hear the reading and prayers, and join with us in song. Faith, hope, and courage were sustained by this recognition of God more than by all other agencies combined.

An effort was here made to get recruits out of the prison for the Confederate army. Especially were the regular soldiers who were in our company importuned. But our band were not asked. I presume they thought we could not be trusted. Had the offer now been made I would not have accepted, though I would have done so without hesitation at any time preceding the death of our friends. Now my religious principles would have prevented me from taking the oath of allegiance to the Confederacy for the mere purpose of breaking it by desertion. But I was glad the temptation was not offered to any of our band.

At length there came to us most startling news,—a court-martial was again convened! This was the first since the ever-memorable one at Knoxville, and we awaited its action with breathless interest. A week of sickening suspense passed and no summons came for us. Had we been ordered out for trial we had resolved to try again to escape, even if the effort only resulted in throwing us on the bayonets of the surrounding guards. But when news came that the court had adjourned, we were as much rejoiced as we had been fearful before. It did look as if they intended to persecute the feeble remnant of our party no further; and passing from the extreme of despondency to that of hope, we began once more to indulge the blissful expectations of exchange. But our time had not yet come.

The weeks rolled on. Few things worthy of note occurred. The same monotony which makes prison-life so dreary robs it of interest when recorded. We would rise in the morning from our hard bed—the floor—and wash ourselves by pouring water on each other's hands; then eat our scanty rations when brought. Then the effort was to kill time until dinner came, which was about four o'clock. It was not abundant, but if we had a bundle of roasted sweet potatoes to add from our own stores, as often happened, it was not so bad. Then we did anything to keep busy until the gas was lit. This was kept burning all night, not from any favor to us, but only that the guards might see that we were not arranging any plan for escaping.

This was the most cheerful hour of the day, for under the soft inspiration of the gaslight conversation flowed freely, and all the incidents of our past lives were rehearsed. Wells or some other rebel officer would often enter and talk with us. Arguments and discussion on all manner of subjects were introduced, and often continued until the midnight bells were striking in the town. Then would come our evening prayers as we lay down to dream often of home and friends and freedom. In the morning the same round recommenced. Thus days glided into weeks, and weeks passed into months. The golden hues of autumn deepened into the sombre colors of early winter, and still we were in Atlanta. It almost seemed as if we would never be anywhere else.

At length there came a day of wonderful joy. A number of officers, including the provost-marshal, came to the barracks, and, inquiring out our room, had us all drawn up in line. One of them stepped forth and addressed us, saying that he had good news to communicate, which they had been hoping to receive for some time past. He continued, "You have all been exchanged, and all that now remains is to send you out of our territory by way of Richmond and City Point."

Each of them then came along our line and shook hands with us,—the Tennesseeans and regular soldiers included, twenty in all,—offering congratulations on the happy terminations of our trials, and wishing us much joy on our arrival at home.

Our feelings were indescribable, but strangely mingled. There was an overwhelming rush of emotions which forbade utterance,—rapture exceedingly great, and yet mingled with a deep touch of sorrow that our seven dead—murdered—comrades were not with us to share the joy of this hour. And the eight also who had managed to get out of the clutches of the rebels by their own daring,—we were uneasy about them. Only a day or two before we had seen in an Atlanta paper, obtained, as usual, through the negroes, who were waiters here as well as at the jail, an article clipped from the Cincinnati Commercial, telling of the arrival of Porter and Wollam at Corinth, as narrated above. Of the others we had received no reliable information, but supposed that some of them at least had perished. The provost-marshal told us that three had been shot and left in the woods, but we did not fully credit him.

Notwithstanding all this, the prospect of liberty was enough to make our hearts overflow with gratitude to God. I was so agitated that when Wells asked me to write a requisition for provisions for the trip to Richmond I could not do it, and had to transfer the work to more steady hands. It was nine o'clock in the morning when we received the glad news, and we were to start for home—via Richmond—at seven in the evening. As the time for departure drew near, we again lit the gas, and made up a fire, the ruddy blaze of which was an emblem of cheerfulness, to take a farewell view of the room in which we had spent so many not altogether unhappy hours. Often afterwards did we remember that bright hour of expectation.

We were forbidden to take any blankets with us, being told that we would soon be where blankets were plenty. The pieces of carpet we had managed to secure as blankets were therefore left behind, with the exception of two small strips, which were afterwards very serviceable. A great surprise met us when we were ordered to start. We were not tied! This was the first journey on which we had been sent so carelessly, and it afforded the strongest presumption that the exchange was a reality.

All was now in readiness for our departure, and we took a last look at rebel Atlanta. The guards fell in on each side of us, and we wended our way along the dark streets. Wells, even drunker than usual, accompanied us to the cars, where he hiccoughed an affectionate farewell. I carried away one good article of dress,—a nice felt hat. The day before Wells clapped it on my head, telling me that I looked better in it than in my own shabby cap. I supposed that it was only a freak, and that he would reclaim it again, but he did not. It was much out of suit with my other garments, but I wore it until I had a chance to sell it for a great price—in Confederate money!

Sergeant White commanded our escort. He had always been kind to us, and, like his superior, did not care which side came out best in the war, so long as he was not hurt. The guard were only ten in number, while we were twenty and unbound,—a ridiculous falling off from former precautions.

We were crowded into box-cars, and soon began to suffer severely with cold, for the night air was most piercing. It was the 3rd of December, and we had only summer clothing, which was, in addition, very ragged. About three o'clock in the morning we left the train at Dalton to wait for another train to Cleveland, as we were not to go through Chattanooga. This was our last passage over the railroad we had so much wished to destroy nine months before.

The stars were sparkling in night and frosty brilliancy. When we stopped, and the keen and icy wind cut almost through us. We nearly perished before the train arrived, and enabled us to continue our journey.

In the morning we found that our three days' rations, which were to last to Richmond, were barely sufficient for breakfast. We ate everything, and trusted to buying something with the remaining money our Atlanta Union friends had given us. When that failed we had our old resource,—the endurance of hunger.

During this day's ride on the cars, we discussed the question as to whether it would not be best to capture the guard and escape. The task did not seem hard. The guards were very careless, and we could at any time have had as many guns as they had. They sat on the same seats with us, and were often asleep. Several times on the trip we awakened the sentinels by the doors as the corporal approached, thus saving them from punishment. Once Sergeant White laughingly told us that we could escape if we tried, but that he thought it would be more pleasant for us to ride around by way of Richmond rather than to walk over the mountains on our own responsibility. This very security lulled our suspicions, and made us shrink from undertaking an escape which would have involved severe hardship in mountain travel, if nothing worse. Besides, we no longer had the same homogeneous party as in Atlanta.

In the afternoon we passed Knoxville, and were glad to keep right on. Then came the town of Greenville, the home of our former companion, the heroic Captain Fry. About nightfall we reached the Virginia line, and ran steadily on. It was a beautiful night; the moon shone over the pale, frosty hills with a mellow radiance which made the whole landscape enchanting. The shifting scenes of mountain, stream, or ghostly wood seemed to me like a panorama of human life. The morning dawned upon us, still steaming slowly through the romantic valleys of Virginia.

The next day was wet and dreary. Our car leaked, our fire went out, and we were thoroughly uncomfortable. By evening we had reached the mountain city of Lynchburg, and discovered that we had missed the railroad connection. This led to a delay of twenty-four hours, which we greatly regretted, being very anxious to get speedily through to our own lines. We had all our plans laid for the happy day of our arrival at Washington.

We were quartered in a large bare room belonging to the barracks, where some of the worst criminals of the Confederacy were also confined. There was a great stove in the centre of the room, but, as no fire was put in it, we had to endure another night of dampness and cold. The only consolation was found in the thought that we would not have many more such nights to spend before reaching home. I paced the floor till nearly morning, and saw a good many amusing incidents. Many of the rebels were drunk and disposed to mischief. One man diverted himself by walking around the room on the forms of those who were trying to sleep. In his round he stepped on Bensinger,—one of our party. The infliction was patiently endured the first time, but as the sot came again, Bensinger was on the lookout, and, springing to his feet, gave him a blow that stretched him out on the floor. Some of his companions rushed forward to resent the just punishment, but Bensinger's friends also were prepared, and there was a good prospect of a general fray. But, as soon as the ruffians understood the position, they retired to their own side of the room.

In the raw and chill morning I found here some of the most virulent enemies of the Union I had yet seen. A prisoner loudly declared that no quarter ought to be given in the war,—said that he had advocated raising the black flag from the first, asserting that "if it had been raised the war would have been over long since."

"No doubt of it," I replied. "In that case the whole Southern race would have been exterminated long before this."

That mode of ending the war had not entered his mind, and he did not appear pleased with the suggestion.

A little before dark the next evening we again started, and now had good, comfortable cars,—the best we had enjoyed on the route. But we only ran a short distance to the junction, where we had to leave them and wait the arrival of another train. Here was the best chance of escape we had yet found. The night was pitchy dark, and so cold that the guards built a great fire on the border of a strip of woodland, and allowed us to help in gathering withered sticks to replenish it. They scarcely appeared to notice us, and all that was necessary for escape was to give the word and run for it. Nothing held us but the absolute confidence of a speedy exchange, and, depending upon that, the golden opportunity was neglected. Of course, the perils and hardships of wandering through the Virginia mountains in the depth of winter would have been severe, but the start would have been mere child's play. Oh! how bitterly we afterwards regretted that we had not darted into the depths of the forest and sought to effect our own exchange!

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