A participant in the feat, in his narrative of the affair, published in "Battles and Leaders of the Civil War," by the Century Company, says:
"Thus we sped on, mile after mile, in this fearful chase, around curves and past stations in seemingly endless perspective. Whenever we lost sight of the enemy beyond a curve, we hoped that some of our obstructions had been effective in throwing him from the track, and that we would see him no more; but at each long reach backward the smoke was again seen, and the shrill whistle was like the scream of a bird of prey. The time could not have been so very long, for the terrible speed was rapidly devouring the distance, but with our nerves strained to the highest tension, each minute seemed an hour. On several occasions the escape of the enemy from wreck seemed little less than miraculous. At one point a rail was placed across the track so skillfully on the curve, that it was not seen till the train ran upon it at full speed. Fuller says that they were terribly jolted, and seemed to bounce altogether from the track, but lighted on the rail in safety. Some of the Confederates wished to leave a train which was driven at such a reckless rate, but their wishes were not gratified."
At last, when hope was well nigh exhausted, a final attempt was made. Additional obstructions were thrown on the track, the side and end boards of the last car were torn into shreds, all available fuel was piled upon it, and blazing brands were brought back from the engine. Reaching a long, covered bridge, the car, which was now fairly ablaze, was uncoupled; but before the bridge was fully on fire the pursuers came upon it, pushed right into the smoke, and ran the burning car before them to the next side track. So this expedient also failed. With no car left, no fuel--every scrap of it having been thrown into the engine or upon the burning car--and with no means of further obstructing the track, the pursued party were reduced to desperation, and as a last resource, when within eighteen miles of Chattanooga, abandoned the train and dispersed to the woods, each to save himself.
The good old locomotive, now feeble and useless, was left. According to some accounts it was reversed, in order to cause a collision with the on-coming train, but according to others, the steam was exhausted, and the engine just stopped for want of power. However this may have been, the hunters of the train become at once hunters of the train stealers, several of whom were captured the same day, and all but two within a week. Two of those who had failed to connect with the party were also captured. Being in citizen's dress within the enemy's lines, the whole party were held as spies. A court-martial was formed and the leader and seven out of the remaining twenty-two were condemned and executed. The others were never brought to trial. Of the remaining fourteen, eight succeeded by a bold effort in making an escape from Atlanta, and ultimately reaching the North. The other six failed in this effort, and remained prisoners until March, 1863, when they were exchanged.
All sorts of stories have been heard from time to time concerning the supernatural side of railroading, and the peculiar and apparently hidden antics which locomotives occasionally are guilty of. The following story is well worth reproducing, and may serve as an illustration of hundreds of others. It was told by an engineer, who worked on the Utah & Northern Railroad years ago, before that road became part of the Union Pacific system. The road was very rough, and save for a long stretch of sage brush along the Snake River north of Pocatello, it ran in cañons, over mountains, and through heavy cuts of clay, which was often washed down on to the tracks by the spring rains. It was, as it is now, a railroad rushed with business.
It was the only line into Butte City, which had been struck a short time before, and was then giving promise of its future distinction as the greatest mining camp in the world. The shipments of gold and bullion were very heavy, and all the money for the banks in Butte and Helena was sent over this road. There were no towns along the line. The only stops were made at water-tanks, and such eating-houses as the railroad company had built at long intervals. It was a rough, hard run, and was made especially lonely by the uninhabited stretches of sand and sage brush, and the echoes from the high granite walls of the narrow cañon. It was a dangerous run besides. The James gang of train robbers and the Younger brothers had been operating so successfully in Missouri, Kansas and Minnesota that other bandits had moved West to attempt similar operations.
Finally, word came from the general offices of Wells, Fargo & Co. that several train robbers had been seen in Denver, and might work their way north in the hope of either securing gold bullion from one of the down trains from Butte, or money in exchange on an up train. After detailing these conditions, the engineer went on.
"We got a new manager for the road, an Eastern man, who had some high notions about conducting railroad travel on what he called a modern basis. One of the first results of his management was a train, which he called the 'Mormon Flyer,' running from Butte to Salt Lake, and scheduled on the time card to run forty miles an hour. We told him he never could make that time on a rough mountain road, where a train had to twist around cañon walls like a cow in the woods, but he wouldn't believe it. He said that if a train could run forty-five miles an hour in the East it could run forty on that road. The train was made up with a heavy 'hog' engine, a baggage car, express car and two sleepers. The first train down jumped the track twice, and the up train from Salt Lake was wrecked and nearly thrown into the Snake River. Then the trains ran from four to six hours behind time, and the people and the papers began to jest about the 'Mormon Flyer,' and ask for a return of the old Salisbury coach line. The manager complained from time to time, and said it was all the fault of the engineers; said that we did not know our business, and that he would get some men from the East who would make the 'Mormon Flyer' fly on time.
"Well, one evening in Butte I had made up my train and was waiting for orders, when the station-master handed two telegrams to me. One was from the manager at Salt Lake, and read: 'You bring the 'Flyer' in on time to-morrow, or take two weeks' notice.' The other was from the Wells, Fargo & Co. agent, at Salt Lake, and read: 'No. 3 (the north-bound 'Flyer') held up this afternoon near Beaver Cañon. Treasure box taken and passengers robbed.' The best description of the robbers that could be had, was given. I showed both telegrams to the conductor, who held the train until he could get a dozen Winchesters from the town. In the meantime I had put the fireman on, and we put the finishing touches on the engine, No. 38--a big, new machine, with eight drivers, and in the pink of condition. I told my fireman that if we couldn't pull her through on time we would leave the train on the side of the road, and thus teach a trick or two to the man who wanted to run a mountain road on Eastern methods. I pulled that train out of Butte as though it had been shot out of a gun, and when we reached the flat below Silver Bar Cañon I had her well set and flying like a scared wolf. The train was shaking from side to side like a ship at sea, and we were skipping past the foothills so fast that they looked like fence posts. The cab shook so that my fireman couldn't stand to fill the fire-box, so he dumped the coal on the floor and got down on all fours and shoveled it in. No. 38 seemed to know that she was wanted to hold down my job, and quivered like a race horse at the finish. We made up the lost time in the first 100 miles, and got to Beaver Cañon with a few minutes to spare.
"It was when I slowed her up a bit in the cañon that I noticed something the matter with her. She dropped her steady gait and began to jerk and halt. The fire-box clogged and the steam began to drop, and when I reached a fairly long piece of road in the dark and silent cañon, she refused to recover. She spit out the steam and gurgled and coughed, and nothing that I could do would coax her along. I told the fireman that the old girl was quitting us, and that we might as well steer for new jobs. He did his best to get her into action, but she was bound to have her own way. She kept losing speed every second, and wheezed and puffed like a freight engine on a mountain grade, and moved about as fast. Finally, we came to a corner of a sharp turn, almost at the mouth of the cañon, and then No. 38 gave one loud, defiant snort and stopped. "'She's done for now,' I said to the fireman, and we got out of the cab with our lanterns.