From my seat on the rocks among the bushes, which was elevated considerably above the winding road down the mountain, I could see by the refracted sunset, in that clear atmosphere, a long way ahead of me. There seemed to be a thick, almost dense growth of timber, which was still below me, so that I looked only over the tops of the trees, as one views the chimney-tops of a city from a hill. I knew that somewhere in that general direction were the Union forces, which had recently attacked the Rebels at the Gap. I could only imagine that their outposts of cavalry were within—say a few miles at furthest.
The house that I was working so hard to avoid was yet, seemingly, as close as it had been before I had quit the road. But from my isolated position I could see only the top of it. The road had become lost under the tree-tops. Looking back, I could see nothing but the stockades at the top of the Gap, and these I could only locate in the fast gathering twilight, because I knew their exact position. There were no signs of life behind me—nor before me—except that the smoke kept curling straight upward from the chimney-top, until it formed in appearance a water-spout in the evening sky.
Up to that time, I might have safely returned to the Rebel camps, or, if I had been halted and arrested, it would not have been a difficult matter to have accounted for my being out of bounds at the time. But I had no intention of returning. I had started for home, and I was willing to risk everything to get there. I knew very well at that moment I had deliberately added to my peril, in a blind fearless sort of a way, that causes me a shudder as I write it down here to-day. If I had been caught, I would have been liable to summary execution, on the simple charge of deserting to the enemy, and, of course, any delay in the execution of this sentence must have resulted only in my character as a spy being discovered by the investigation which must follow. While thinking over these things, for the moments I sat on that mountain-side that evening, I recalled my similar experience while trying to get out of Beauregard's army in Virginia. I planned a plausible excuse to offer, in case I should accidentally run into anything hostile, when it suddenly occurred to me that the "official papers" about the strength of Beauregard's army in August, 1861, which I had gotten out of the telegraph office and had endeavored to smuggle through, were the cause of my greatest danger that time, and I had resolved then that I should never again be caught with any papers in my possession.
Following my thoughts with the movements of my hands into my pockets, to strip myself of papers, and be prepared for a dash for liberty, I hauled out the letter which the Captain had handed to me with specific instructions to deliver to the Lieutenant.
I destroyed it with a good deal of energy, after having first nervously opened and read it. By that one simple act, I had cut down the last bridge behind me. But you will not be surprised at my rash conduct, in thus robbing the Confederate mail, when I give you the substance of the letter, as nearly as I can recollect, and, by the way, a lifetime—a long and checkered lifetime—will not serve to efface from the memory the recollections of such days and nights as this in one's experience.
"Headquarters, near Knoxville.
"Lieutenant Commanding
"Detachment Maryland Artillery,
Cumberland Gap:
"I send you by —— the Muster Rolls, etc.
"It was the intention to go myself, but we have some prospect of a move in another direction, and I will wait here for further orders. We have borrowed this horse from the Staff, so that these papers can be fixed up and returned by ——, so they can be returned to Richmond.
"I have a letter from Richmond asking about the antecedents of ——, and the purpose of sending him up is, that you and the "Colonel" (the Sergeant), who brought him in, can answer.
"My information is, that he is wanted at Richmond for something. I'm waiting to hear through the Secretary of War."
"(Signed.)"
This was enough for me. I was not going back now; in fact, I'd rather be shot in trying to escape in Kentucky than to be deliberately hung in Tennessee. Those who have read my story will not censure me for opening that letter and neglecting to deliver it personally. Probably the rattle-snakes that crawled out of their holes among the rocks in that hill-side, when the weather became warmer, were astonished at the fragments of that official correspondence lying around there so loosely; may be the crumpled and torn papers became the basis of some nests. I only know that it was not delivered—not much.
CUMBERLAND GAP—THIS WAS ENOUGH FOR ME.