Several of us were furnished with an elegant supper of chicken and corn cakes, while the officer and myself were agreeably entertained by the ladies in the parlor during the long evening.
There were, also, a couple of mules going back home on sick furlough. These were tied on behind the wagon that was in front of ours, being towed along in this way like a pair of solemn prisoners of war.
One of these mules was bigger than the other, but the little one had the larger head and longer ears of the two, which gave to it a peculiar, wise-looking expression of grave dignity. It was what would be called a roan. I remember that, in our joking way, we had lots of fun about its hide being about the color of the Rebel uniforms. I reckon our loud and coarse remarks about this mule must have hurt its feelings; at least, this is the only way in which I can account for its subsequent vindictive conduct toward me.
Those who have been in Kentucky—especially that part of Kentucky—will know something about the roads. At this season of the year they were simply awful—not so muddy, but just about as rough as big rocks, and the exposed roots of large trees could make them. The rains for ages back seemed to have washed out all the bottom of earth, and had left exposed on the surface a network or corduroy of roots, with the chinks filled in with stones. It wasn't pleasant riding in an army wagon over these roads, and we earned our passage by walking. There was not sufficient room on that road beside the wagon for a foot path, so we had to follow in the rear of the wagons. In a long procession of wagons, mules, and soldiers, sandwitched one behind the other, I was walking slowly, one afternoon, with my head down, thinking over the happy escapes from the many dangers through which I had been almost miraculously preserved, and no doubt dreaming of the anticipated joys of a welcome home, which was soon to be realized, when all of a sudden I felt a quick rush of wind and dust thrown like a gust into my face; at the same time the rim of my hat was barely touched by the heels of that roan mule. The fellow who was beside me cried out something about "looking out," and dragged me back into the heads of the team following.
This is not an attempt to be funny, but is set down here as a most remarkable intervention of Providence—or my good angel—for my safety. That mule kicked back over a clear space as long as himself, and had correctly directed his heels right into my face; had I been two inches closer, the blow would have been received full on my forehead and must have fractured my skull with its force.
When we got into the town, or City of Lexington, about noon, one day, we found the town full of people. It was, I think, court week; anyway, the prisoner game was played on some of the citizens here also, by Lanyard. In this way we were well cared for.
It was night when we reached Cincinnati, where we were ferried over the Ohio river and placed on Ohio soil. Here I was, at last, free of all restraint, and permitted to do as I pleased. Lanyard was still full of the genuine Kentucky bourbon, and that night was lost to me forever.
I usually hunted up in those days, on reaching a city, a telegraph office, that I might announce to my folks at home, in this spirited way, that I had again returned to the earth for a brief visit to them. It was always a surprise to them to hear from me, after one of these secret-service trips; they never knew exactly where I was, of course, and could not make any calculations as to what point on the earth my balloon would land me next. It will be remembered that I had come upon them suddenly, after being widely advertised as having been hung by both the Rebels and our own officers at Fort Pickens, some time previously, from New York. This time it was from Cincinnati.
Being one of the boys—that is, a telegrapher—I usually had free access to the operating-rooms of the offices, where I frequently met with some of the fraternity with whom I was well acquainted—by wire. You know it is a fact that there are old acquaintances and even intimate friends amongst telegraphers, who have never met personally; their only method of knowing each other is through the mysterious and magnetic pulse of the electric wave over the wire.
In the operating room of the Cincinnati office, up on a dingy fourth floor, I found the night manager, a gentleman whom I had known familiarly by wire, though I had never seen him before. Introducing myself, I was at once made at home, and felt as if I had met the first friend since my return. After giving him a brief account of myself, I was courteously put in instant communication with some of my old associates in the neighboring city, with whom I was personally acquainted, and who had, by the way, heard of my mysterious disappearance and subsequent adventures. For the time being, all other business was laid to one side on that telegraph circuit and the entire system was turned over to me.