Portrait and Biography of Parson Brownlow, The Tennessee Patriot

by William Gannaway Brownlow

When, upon the 6th of November, they thrust me into jail at Knoxville, I found one hundred and fifty men whose sole offence was their faithfulness to the Union. Every man among them was an acquaintance of mine. Three of them were Baptist preachers. One of these three, old man Pope, a man seventy years of age, and for many years a Minister of the Gospel, was thrown into jail for praying, previously to his sermon, for the blessing of God upon the President of the United States. The Rev. Mr. Kates, a man about seventy-five years old, was imprisoned for throwing up his cap and hallooing as a company of Union Home Guards was passing.

When I entered the door the inmates of the prison were perfectly astonished. Some of them were so overpowered by the nature of the circumstances, that they could hardly [speak]. "O," said they, "we never expected to come to this. We never expected the day would come when we would look through the iron grates of a prison!"

I said to them, "Boys, cheer up. Are you here for murder, or counterfeiting, or horse-stealing? No. You are here for no other offence than that of defending the glorious stars and stripes, and I look upon this as the brightest day of my life. These scoundrels will be sick of this business before the thing is over."

While I was in the jail both of these poor preachers were taken sick. The furniture of the prison deserves description. There was no sign of a bedstead, not a chair nor a stool of any kind, and the only "furniture" there was consisted of a dirty wooden pail and two tin cups. The whole one hundred and fifty prisoners could not lie down at once, so that we had to "spell" each other, so all might have a little while to sleep. A part stood while the others lay down. That's the way we lived in the jail.

These poor old preachers came near dying. The rebels showed me one favor. The jailor, I knew, as a mean, sneaking rascal, whom I had published in my paper for forgery, and I was sure that he would give me arsenic in order to make sure of my not doing so again, and I obtained permission for my wife to send me my dinner every day, and I had to send the basket full every day, and in this way I had the satisfaction of feeding those two feeble old preachers for two weeks with something they could eat.

Old Mr. Kates had three sons in jail. Madison Kates was on the verge of the grave with typhoid fever. He lay upon the floor of that damp brick jail, with an old overcoat under his head for a pillow, and a single thickness of old home-made carpeting between him and the cold, damp floor of the prison. In this condition his poor wife came thirty-five miles to see him, with an infant about six weeks old in her arms. She came into the yard of the prison and asked permission to see her husband. The officers said "No, they did not allow any body to have anything to say to these infernal Union-shriekers." I went to the window then, myself, and by dint of perseverance, prevailed upon them at last to let her see her husband. They limited her to just fifteen minutes. When she entered the door her eyes fell upon her husband lying in the corner, so weak and emaciated that he could scarcely stir. He was nearly gone. She held her infant in her arms. The sight of her husband in that condition unnerved her completely. Seeing she was upon the point of letting the child fall, I took it from her and she sank down upon the floor beside her husband. Neither of them uttered a word, but clasping each others hands they sobbed and cried together, and O, my God! I hope that I shall never see such a sight as that again.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the spirit—the hellish, inhuman, infernal spirit of secession. The Devil himself is a saint, compared to the leaders in that scheme.

In Andrew Johnson's town they hung up two men to the same limb, and the bloody Col. Ledbetter, a man born and educated in the State of Maine, going down to Mobile and marrying a lot of negroes through another woman—the worst man, the biggest coward, and the blackest-hearted villain that ever made a track in East Tennessee—this man tied the knots with his own hands, and directed that the victims should be left hanging for four days and nights right over the iron track of the railroad, and ordered the engineers to run their trains slowly by the spot in order that the secessionists on board might feast their eyes upon the ghastly spectacle. And it is a fact as true as it is revolting, that men stood upon the platforms of every train that went by and kicked the dead bodies as they passed, and struck them with sticks and ratans, with such remarks as "that they looked well hanging there," and that all "d——d Yankees and traitors should hang that way too." It is true that Col. Ledbetter, as the weather was somewhat warm and the corpses were becoming somewhat offensive, ordered them to be cut down at the expiration of some thirty-six hours, but it was for the convenience of his secession friends purely, and not from any other motive.

One day they came with two carts and took old Harmon, a Methodist class leader, and his son. Old Mr. Harmon was seated in one cart upon his coffin, and his son in the other, and each cart was surrounded by a strong guard of rebel bayonets, and driven down the hill to a scaffold in sight of the jail. The young man was hung first, and the father was compelled to look upon his death struggles. Then he was told to mount the scaffold, but being feeble and overpowered by his feelings, two of the ruffians took hold of him, one of them saying, "Get up there, you damned old traitor!" and the poor old man was launched after his son.

A few days after this they came up to the jail with another cart. We never knew whose turn was to come next. I had "counted the cost." I intended, if my turn had come, to meet my fate with the best grace I could. I had prepared a speech for the occasion, and I can assure you that I should have pronounced a handsome eulogy, if I had been called upon, for if I have any talent in the world, it is that talent which consists in piling up one epithet upon another. But it turned out that the cart was not intended for me. It was intended for a young man by the name of H. C. Haun, an excellent young man of fine morals and good common sense. He had a wife and two small children. Haun was informed one hour before hand that he was to be hung. He immediately asked for a Methodist preacher who lived in the town, to come to see him, and to pray with him. The reply was: "We don't permit any praying here for a damned Union-shrieker."