We ate breakfast by candle-light, and just about sun-up we were climbing the hill back of his garden. When I reached the top, I saw stretched out for miles Caster river bottom, overflowing everything. The old man said: "Now, my son, you will see nobody today. You will find no road, except this path. You follow this trail right down this ridge and you will come to Ira Abernathy's. There you will have to stop. It is folly to try to go any further until the overflow goes down. Nobody will ever find you there. Ira is a good Methodist; he has been galvanized. You tell him that Uncle McCullough sent you there and said for him to take care of you until the river goes down, it will be all right." I sauntered along that day, one of the prettiest Sundays I ever saw. Deer, turkeys and squirrels were seen on every side. Late in the afternoon, I reached the end of my journey and delivered "Uncle McCullough's" message. When I was through, I saw a face that reminded me exactly of the faces of those Alabamians in Chicago at Camp Douglas. I saw through it instantly. Ira had conscientious regard for his oath. If he kept me there and it was found out, it would go hard with him. Before I went to bed, my
MIND WAS MADE UP NOT TO REMAIN.
I found out from him it was fourteen miles to Bloomfield where the Confederates were, about nine miles was overflowed, that the depth would not be above my waist, except at the last. Duck Creek was deep and dangerous, that I would pass only one house and that was just before I reached Duck creek.
So next morning I started, and in five minutes I was knee deep in water. I could tell the way the road ran by watching the trees, so I kept just on the outside of the edge in the woods. Before a great while I came to a slough which seemed to be dangerous, and on sounding it I found that here was one place that my friend had certainly forgotten; it was very much over my head. I turned to find a log to cross it, which I successfully walked, but on going out on the other side on a limb, the limb broke and I fell into the water. Remember this was March, and it was in Missouri, and you can imagine that I was not very comfortable. You can see something of the happy-go-lucky boy, when I tell you that out there, half a mile from the road, wet as a drowned rat and water all around me, I took out my knife and stood for half an hour by the side of a smooth beech tree, and carved my name: "W. B. Crumpton, Pleasant Hill, Ala." It is there to this day, if the forests have not been destroyed.
I waded along throughout the day and late that afternoon I passed the house on my right, the only dry land I had seen. Beyond the house a slough ran up from the overflow into a corn field. The fence was built up to each end of a log across the slough and rails were stuck in above the logs as a sort of water fence. Behind these rails on the log I was making my way across, when I heard a corn stalk crack over in the field. Looking in that direction I saw a Yankee, in full uniform, with a gun on his shoulder. How those frogs did leap into my throat. What was I to do? I did not dare to dodge; in that case, I could never have explained it if he had seen me. If I should go on the road, he would probably see me, so I eased myself off the end of the log and walked straight away from him into the overflow. I had no idea where I was going, only I knew I was going away from him. I was feeling for bullets in my back all the time, but I am sure that he did not see me. If he had, he would have killed me and have thrown my body in the creek. Now see how Providence leads! If I had followed the road and escaped his eye, I would have come to the creek, with no possible chance of crossing. Naturally I would have turned up the creek, never would have dreamed of going down into the overflow. As it turned out, I came to a raft just in the creek. It had broken loose, I suppose, from a mill above and had lodged there. By wading in, waist deep, I climbed on it, but found I was still some distance from the bank on the other side. I had not looked around since I left the Yankee, so standing on the raft I eased myself around and saw no one. When I measured the water on the other side I found it too deep for me to wade and I couldn't swim a lick. I reached around in the water, got hold of a loose sassafras pole, floated it around, stuck it in the bank on the other side, and undertook to walk it and it partially under water. Of course it wobbled; I went down head and ears. Coming up fortunately I grasped my bundle in one hand and my cap in the other, and found myself chin deep in the water. I waded out on the other side, which seemed to me "the bank of sweet deliverance." I had been told that I would be on the side of the Confederates when I got there. I walked briskly up to the top of the hill and looked around to see if there were any signs of camp-fires anywhere, indicating the presence of the Yankee forces. I supposed that the man I saw in the bottom was on picket. Seeing no signs of camp, I shot down the hill as fast as I could run. An old man seeing me shouted: "Hello, there." I replied: "Hello, yourself." He said: "Stop and give me the news." I said: "I have no news." He yelled again: "Have you seed any soldiers." I replied: "Yes, I saw one back there in the river bottom." He said: "Yes, that's Ike Reader, I heard he was home 'tother day; but stop and give me some news." I said: "No, I haven't time," and on I rushed. I won't say I went the remaining five miles in three-quarters of an hour, but I went it in a very short time. The idea of being caught almost within sight of the rebel lines possessed me and it put wings on my feet. When I reached the borders of the village just about night fall, there was a man standing, as if he were waiting for me, and when I told him my story, he said: "Come right along up to Capt. Miller's home, and you will be welcome." I found that the Captain owned a steamboat on the St. Francis river, and I guess I could have gotten passage if I had asked for it, but I never thought of it. I was given dry clothes, treated most tenderly, and the next morning at breakfast was told that the rebel scouts were in town.
[Chapter Six]
Released on parole; On the lookout; Reaches Helena, Ark.; Aboard the steamer; Black coffee; Reaches Vicksburg; Finds one man who believes him; In ten miles of Newton; On the Mobile and Ohio; More trouble; Reaches home.
