In Defense of the Flag: A true war story / A pen picture of scenes and incidents during the great rebellion.--Thrilling experiences during escape from southern prisons, etc.

by David W. Stafford

We did not get clear through to our friend John’s, but stopped after traveling about twenty-five miles or so. There were mile posts along this road, so that we could tell how far we were traveling in a day or night. After the second day had passed it found us again on the third night eating hard corn from the cob, as we had often done before, when it was not good for us to let ourselves be known along the way. We made up our minds to get to where John Coltraines lived this night if we could, for our old friend who had given us the direction of his abode, told us if we could only find him he would help us through to our lines without any trouble. We started with the full determination of getting through to our lines this night if the Lord was willing, and until midnight had past we had got out of the way and let squads of rebels pass and repass along the way and still we had made some headway. After about the midnight hour I had stopped several times to make some inquiries as to where John Coltraines lived, without apparently any success. I had also asked for hoecake, and in return I had a double-barreled gun pointed through the door at me. This kind of fare we had been receiving all along the way. Never on our whole journey did fate seem to be so much against us as it did at this place, for we had not obtained a bite to eat for most three days, except the first. I had began to get quite jealous of my dear friend Henry, for I had been stopping to enquire the way and he had not stopped, running the chances of being shot at, and I began to find fault, as every jealous person will, with my very best friend and comrade that I believe I ever met in this wide world. I do believe if I should meet him and he had but five dollars he would divide with me, and when Henry heard me talk to him about his being a little cowardly he felt very bad, and told me through his tears that he was no coward if I did think he was. This sad talk, and with such feeling, broke me up, and I caught my grieved old comrade by the hand and wanted him to forgive me for this unkind talk, which I promised would never again happen, and I wish to thank God that it never did. Henry was determined that he would show me that he was no coward and he told me that he meant to stop at the very next house. Now we had been told by our guide that we must not stop at William Coltraines’, or “Bill,” as he was commonly called, for he was captain of the rebel home guards, or of a band of guerillas. We had gotten very close to where John Coltraines lived, and it was best that we should go slow, as we had been told about the barn which was a very large one, on the west side of the road, and the big wood colored house on the other side located on a raised lawn. Several steps of square blocks led up to the house. We came to this place, and Henry, not heeding my warning, at once started up these steps. I continued to call to him to stop, but he would not. He went to the large piazza and knocked on the door. I still called to him, but he did not heed, so determined was he that he would demonstrate to me that he was no coward. I could see very plainly that this was the very house we had been warned not to stop at, yet Henry continued to knock. There was a gruff voice heard, which I will never forget until my dying day, asking who was there. Henry told him that it was a friend. He was not satisfied, but still insisted on knowing who it was. Then Henry inquired where John, his own brother, lived. The old captain told him he would soon let him know where he lived, so he came to the door and shoved out a double-barreled shot gun, and before poor Henry had time to dodge, shoved my poor comrade and friend to the ground. I thought when he struck the ground that he had been killed, but soon he rose to his feet and pleaded for the rebel to spare his life. Just at this moment I rushed up to the top of the lawn, or stone steps, when he caught sight of me, and just as he was about to level his gun on me I dropped backward and struck on all fours at the bottom of the steps. Just as I did so Henry took advantage of the situation and hurried behind the house. He ran clear around and down through a cane field in the direction we had been going, and as soon as I could gain my feet I started down the road as fast as my legs could carry me. The rebel by this time was also at the road side and sent another shot after me. The first shot came very close. Just as I fell to the ground the rebel turned his fire on my comrade just as he turned the corner of the house. Now as soon as the second shot was fired at me he hastened to the barn, no doubt to get some steed with which to pursue us. Just then there seemed to be a great stir at that plantation house. My desire was to again get with Henry, and stopping, I placed my fingers to my mouth and whistled the third brigade call. At the time of Henry’s capture he was despatch carrier for our brigade and also the bugler of our regiment. Now I had learned to give the call on my fingers. This is the call in words: “Dan, Dan Butterfield! Butterfield, get up you poor devil as quick as you can, and when you get tired I will rest you again.” This repeated in the first words on a horn or whistle is very interesting to anyone who has ever heard the call. Now to whistle this call right in the face of an enemy seemed a hard task, but it had to be done. Soon there came an answer, and within five minutes we were again on our way, but the thought of ever meeting with John Coltraines was now abandoned.

We had to change our course and leave this road, never to travel it again. We struck out to the west of this road, the road, as I have stated, running north and south. We made as good time as we could in order to reach a forest that seemed to lay off to the west. By this time it was now well on toward two o’clock in the morning. We succeeded in getting into a thick swampy region which we had every reason to believe saved our lives, for from the sounds we heard we came to the conclusion that we were being looked after in this swamp, and that it was no desirable place to be in. It was a very bad quagmire swamp, with moss hanging from the trees, and a bad place to stop in at night, let alone the day. For the next few days and nights, without a smell of meat or hoecake, or any such thing, except hard corn, we had nothing more to eat, and our company day and night was moccasin snakes and other rattling and hissing reptiles. Still we traveled, not fearing the wild animals as much as we did the rebels with their horns and hounds. Well, I must say that, young as I was at that time, it was one of the worst and most dreary times in the lines of life’s pages. To even contemplate it now seems almost like a dream.

Well, after sleeping and traveling almost night and day continually—cloudy weather some of the time and lost some of the time—we finally came out where there was a large plantation on this Shelterford road some sixty miles from where I had been shot at and to which I had been directed by hearing the dancing of two small negroes and the patting and singing of a large negro in one of the negro huts. Here we stopped and ate the last meal together and the last night that we ever traveled together in this southern country. Oh, how sad it makes me feel when I think back of the lonely nights that we both spent, traveling the balance of our journey! Well, as I was speaking of our last meal together: It was at the supper of two rebel bushwhackers, and these two rebels who were staying at this rebel plantation were men who would shoot down a poor fleeing prisoner on sight, and this made us uneasy to get away. This darkey had placed in the fire, in an old-fashioned fire place, a mess of large sweet potatoes for us to carry along with us, as he told us, but this he did intending to keep us until the two rebel guerillas came in on us. We had told this negro how well the old Quaker had used us during our stay with him, and I think that this darkey took advantage of this to fool us in telling us that one of these men staying here was a Quaker and he did not know what the other was. He seemed to be so uneasy that it aroused us, and we had just arose to go when the gate opened in front of the hut and the two little black darkies slipped out unbeknown to us. They had taken with them a ham that Henry carried along with him. Just at this time we did not know what to do, for an instant, but I had learned that my dear comrade was no coward, for here he showed the bravest thing that I had witnessed in a long time. I told the darkey that if he told of our whereabouts as we crawled under the bed, that we would kill him if it was the last thing we ever did. What my dear comrade did and which was his last brave act was to tell me to crawl under the bed and leave all to him. He thought he could get us out of the trouble all right. The two little darkies had already told the rebels of our eating up their supper, and one of these rebels, it seemed, went to the old planter’s house for a double-barreled shot gun and the other rebel came into the negro cabin. Now this cabin was like all other plantation huts. It had one door and one window on the east side, in the former of which a rebel stood, and a fire place in the north end, made of stone and sticks and daubed with red clay, and in the corner at the foot of the bed was a ladder. Between this ladder, close to the straw cot, lay my comrade, and just as soon as the rebel commenced to ask the negro what was the matter, and the darkey standing in the middle of the hut with mouth wide open, Henry arose to his feet and spoke to the rebel, bidding him good evening. It took the rebel so much by surprise it seemed as though poor Henry could have snatched one of his weapons from his scabbard and shot him with one of his own guns, but it seemed that the Lord had another way for us to get out of this dilemma. Henry was trying to find his cane that he had left in the corner that he might surprise the rebel still more, but the little darkies had made way with it. So after the first surprise the rebel began to think of his weapons, and drew them for the first time, asking Henry where he was going. Henry told him he was going north to a large river that we expected to cross. “Well,” said the rebel, “how many are there of you?” Henry told him there were two of us. Oh, how uneasy I was at this time, under a bed in a negro hut, betrayed, and, as I thought, almost in the jaws of death! Still he asked Henry where the other fellow was, and Henry told him I was out in the road. The rebel told Henry to go out and tell me to come in and he would fix him in about a minute. This was what Henry desired—to get out once for a start—so he went right off in a southern direction, and just as soon as the rebel started after him I got out of the hut as soon as I could. The darkey tried to stop me, but with one swing of my club I placed him out of my way. When I got to the road fence the rebels saw me running in the opposite direction. I made for the timber in a north-easterly direction as fast as I could, and very soon there was heard the blast of horns and the baying of hounds in pursuit of me. Oh, how gloomy and heart sick I was to find myself separated from my comrade, with hounds and rebels in pursuit of me. It must at this time have been about one o’clock in the morning. Soon thereafter it began to rain very hard. All at once the hounds came upon me, but they did not seem to be as fierce as the blood hounds of Andersonville. Shortly the blast of the horns ceased, and the hounds stopped following us. This was the last of our being together.

Now, my travel the balance of the way to our lines, of over four hundred miles, was alone, and a sad and lonely journey it proved to be. Well, I have learned from Henry what he did after he ran south. The poor boy came back to the negro shanty after it sat in and commenced to rain, to find out, if he could, whether the rebels had captured me, or had, as he thought, shot me, for as he made away they turned their attention to me, and he heard them shoot at me as I left the negro shanty. Henry came back to this shanty. The negro had drank an apple jack and was so drunk in consequence that Henry could not wake him, although he hammered him with his cane. He then went to the encampment of a large band of guerillas, and here he whistled on his fingers the call of the brigade which we belonged to until he aroused the whole encampment. Well, dear reader, it is very seldom that one comrade will do this for another.

On the banks of the Big Peedee river, after we had swam this stream three times in one day, and each time I had carried poor Henry on a cane across my left shoulder, we pledged ourselves that we would not forsake each other in life or in death. Now I remained in this timber, thinking that Henry might come this way and we would again get together, but I was destined to disappointment, though I continued to make the call on my fingers, yet did not give up in despair. If I had I could not have written this simple narrative.

Well, I must hasten along. I lay by a good part of the next day in this forest. Then I kept on in a northern direction until I came to the river that Henry spoke to the rebel of. Now while crossing this river I had since learned that Henry and I might have gotten together again if we had only known each other, for below me, as I was told the story, there was a rebel, to all appearances, crossing the river about one hundred rods distant. We both told the same story, only he allowed the rebel was just such a distance above him, and right here, if we had understood, we could have gotten together again, but it seems our lives still laid apart from each other.

I am in hopes that we may meet some day—if not in this world, that we will in the world to come.

Praise God! My mind is continually trusting in Him that He will keep me in the truth in this narrative.

Now, as I continue the sad tale of my life, I would not like to rehearse the tale that Henry revealed to me of his escape in an endeavor to get through to our lines after he left me. He had gone south a short distance and had come back to the plantation, not finding any clue as to my whereabouts. He had crossed the river, which I have already mentioned. He then concluded to go east, in the direction of Richmond, for he had learned that it was a great deal less distance to travel to get through to our lines in this way than to go west to Knoxville, Tenn. So he continued to travel for several days until he came to a plantation where there was no one at home. He said that he succeeded in getting into the plantation house, but he did not find anything to eat of any account. He found a ten dollar bill in an old pair of pants that he took possession of. He then continued to travel for some distance in the day-time, as well as night, and finally came to a small place where there was a log hut, and located in this hut was an old man, working at shoemaking. He went to the door of this hut and here he found, to his amazement, three rebels in full uniform, who invited him in, but he declined to go in, and remained at the door of the hut. There was some corn in a pile close to the door, and he got some of it and put it in the fire that was close at hand, and as soon as he stepped inside to help himself to the parched corn the enemy tried to get between him and the door, but he kept them back with a large club that he carried in his hands. These rebels, it seemed, had not brought any arms with them.

Well, soon Henry left this place and went right back in a piece of woods in the same direction from whence he had come, and just as soon as he could he went straight back to the same house and this old man’s yard. He had a large rooster and some chickens running about. He killed the rooster and gave the old man the ten dollar Confederate bill and stayed right there, while the rebels took his back track. Henry started as soon as the old man had stewed this fowl for him.