Capturing a Locomotive: A History of Secret Service in the Late War.

by William Pittenger

The same night we reached the banks of the Tennessee, directly south of Jasper, and lodged at the house of a Mrs. Hall. A flat-boat owned by one of the neighbors was used as a ferry-boat, and arrangements were made for setting us on the other side of the stream early in the morning. The evening spent here was very enjoyable. Others of our party came in, and among them Andrews himself. After a good supper, we were all assigned to the best room, which had a roaring wood-fire in an open chimney, and two large beds in the corners. We met without any outward sign of recognition, but rapidly became acquainted. Each acted according to his own nature. The bountiful supper and the cheerful fire greatly refreshed us after the labor of the day. My companion, Shadrach, was soon acknowledged as the wit of the party, and received perpetual applause for his mirthful sallies. Andrews was silent, but appeared to greatly enjoy the fun. Dorsey, who had great forethought and prudence, and had decided that it was good policy, even among his comrades, to appear as ignorant as possible, felt highly complimented when told that his group had been described to some of the others who followed as "a party of country Jakes." Wilson gave us all the information wanted on every possible subject. Songs were sung, stories were told, and as the family formed part of the fireside company, many of the incidents may not have been quite authentic. Late at night this social evening's entertainment closed. It was the more highly appreciated as it was the first opportunity most of us had enjoyed of becoming acquainted with our leader and with each other.

In the morning Andrews started up the river on horseback. The flat-boat was bailed out, and we were just entering it, when a mounted man appeared and handed the ferryman an order forbidding him to allow any one to cross the river at his ferry for three days. We tried to get an exception made in our favor, as we had contracted with him the evening before, but he was unwilling to assume the risk. The messenger gave us the reason for the order, and a most interesting piece of news it was. General Mitchel was moving rapidly southward for some unknown object, and it was desirable on that account to stop all intercourse with the country beyond the river. The messenger volunteered the comforting assurance that "these brave Kentuckians will no doubt find a warm welcome at Chattanooga," and gave us the best directions in his power for reaching that point. We concealed our disappointment, and as soon as we were alone debated as to the best course to be taken. Two alternatives only were open. One was to build or seize a raft or boat and cross in defiance of the order. This was easy enough in the night, but in daytime it would be very hazardous, and that day, until five o'clock in the afternoon, was the only time at our disposal. We therefore took the only remaining course, and dispersing, hurried over the mountains towards Chattanooga.

Our journey was far from pleasant, as the rocky mountain-spurs here sweep directly down to the bank of this very crooked river. Several times we lost our way in the entanglements of the woods, but at length reached a valley that ran down to the Tennessee directly opposite Chattanooga. The road was now more frequented, and we talked freely with travellers, for all fear of being detected by those we chanced to meet had long since been dissipated.

One countryman related a very interesting item of news from the war in the East. It was to the effect that the Confederate iron-clad "Merrimac" had one day steamed out into the harbor of Fortress Monroe, and after engaging the Union "Monitor" for some hours, with no decisive result, had run alongside of her opponent, and throwing grappling-irons on board, had towed her ashore, where she, of course, fell an easy prey. This may serve as a specimen of the kind of news we perpetually heard while in the Confederate States.

Quite a number of persons—many of them of our own party—were waiting on the banks of the Tennessee River. The assemblage of so many of us on that side of the river was very unfortunate, as it materially increased the risk of discovery; but a very high wind was blowing, and the ferryman feared to risk his little shackly "horse-boat" on the turbulent stream. Our time was nearly exhausted, and we could not afford to wait very long. We urged the boatman very strenuously to set us over at once, but he wished to delay until the wind fell. Nothing as yet had been said to us about passes, but this was explained mentally by the conjecture that there was a guard on the other side, whose inspection we would be obliged to pass,—a more formidable ordeal than we had yet encountered. When requests for a speedy passage failed to move the ferryman, we changed our tactics, and talked in his hearing of the cowardice of Tennessee boatmen as contrasted with Kentuckians, or even the Ohio Yankees. When twelve or sixteen men deliberately attempt to make one man angry, they can generally succeed. The boatman soon tired of our raillery, and, entering his boat, told us to come on and show what we could do by lending him a hand, adding that he would put us over or drown us, he did not care much which. The invitation was promptly accepted, and by pushing with poles and pulling on the limbs of overhanging trees we moved up the stream to a point judged most favorable, and swung out into the waves. The ride was short and not without danger, but the peril on the other side was so much greater that we had little thought to give to the passage. "How should we meet and deceive the guard?" This was the important question. Our surprise was almost equal to our delight when we landed and found no one to bar our progress. The explanation was perfectly simple. The guard had not been placed that afternoon because it was not believed that any one would attempt to cross in the storm. Wondering at our good fortune, we hurried to the cars, and were in time to procure tickets for Marietta before the departure of the train, which was crowded with passengers, many of them Confederate soldiers. In such a crowd it was easy to avoid notice.

Every seat in the cars was filled, and we had to be contented with standing room. The fumes of whiskey and tobacco were very strong. Talking was loud and incessant, and turned mostly upon the great battle of Shiloh, the accounts of which were by no means so extravagant as at first, though a great victory was still claimed. We took part in the conversation freely, judging this to be the best way of maintaining our assumed disguise. No general system of passports had been brought into use, at least in this part of the South, and railway travel was entirely unrestricted.

The sun was about an hour high when we glided out of the depot, and it soon sank to rest behind the hills of Georgia. The time for our perilous attempt drew near. There was some diversity of opinion among the members of the party, as revealed by conversations both before and after, as to the prospects of success. The most of us felt some solicitude, but were far more hopeful than when we left camp. So many incidents had occurred substantially as they had been planned, that trust in the foresight of our leader, with the assurance that all would come out right, was greatly strengthened. The first feeling of strangeness which followed our plunge into the enemy's country had given way to confidence in the impenetrability of our mental disguise. For my own part I scarcely felt a doubt of success. It seemed to me that a dozen modes of escape were open in the improbable event of failure. I saw the dangers surrounding us clearly, but none of them now appeared more formidable than when I first asked Colonel Harris the privilege of joining the expedition. There were many bridges on the road we passed over, and we could not help picturing our return on the morrow and the vengeance we proposed wreaking on them. Darkness closed in, and on we went amid the oaths and laughter of the rebels, many of whom were very much intoxicated. I procured a seat on the coal-box and gave myself up to the thoughts suggested by the hour. There was now no need of trying to keep up conversation with those around. Visions of former days and friends—dear friends, both around the camp-fires and the hearths of home, whom I might never see again—floated before me. I also heard much talk of the merits of different States and regiments in the contest, and many discussions of the conscript law, which was just now coming into force. The opinion of the greater number of the soldiers seemed to be that while the provisions of the law were right in compelling all to take a part in the burdens of the conflict, yet that it would be of but little service, as the unwilling soldiers, who were thus forced into the ranks, would be no match for volunteers. Little did they imagine that in this terrible law their rulers had found a weapon which would enable them to repulse the Northern armies at every point, and protract the war for three years longer!

At this time the Union cause seemed most hopeful. All appearances indicated a speedy termination of the war and a complete re-establishment of the old government. Few great battles had taken place, but the preponderance of fortune as well as force seemed everywhere on the loyal side. In the West, our armies had during the last three months penetrated almost half-way to the Gulf; McClellan was preparing to move with overwhelming force towards Richmond; Burnside was dealing hard blows on the North Carolina coast; the force which captured New Orleans was already on the way; and at no point were the rebel forces a fair match for their opponents. Volunteering had almost stopped in the South, while recruits were pouring as a steady stream into the Northern armies, and continued to do so for a year longer. A rebellion almost isolated and placed everywhere on the defensive could not hope for long life unless new resources were discovered. The rebel leaders well knew this, and therefore passed the conscription law.

It is scarcely an exaggeration to say that there were two wars waged between the North and the South. The first was between the two people by means of volunteers, and the second between the two governments. For the first year the soldiers fought on both sides with scarcely a thought of pay or bounty, and without a hint of compulsion. But the South had reached the end of this period, and her volunteers were beaten and exhausted. This was not from any want of bravery on their part, but because of inferior numbers, and because, having less at stake than the volunteers of the North, they could less willingly support adverse fortune. Now the new law was enacted at the South which put all the able-bodied population at the service of the State. The advantages were immediate and obvious. All the volunteers who had enlisted for a limited time were retained. The depleted organizations were filled up to their full strength, instead of waiting for the recruiting of new regiments, and the conscripts thus became, in a few days, the equals of old soldiers. The second year of the war, in which the Northern volunteers fought the whole force the Southern States could bring into the field, was, on the whole, the most unfavorable of any period to the loyal arms. It became clear that the supremacy of the Union could not be restored unless the same potent weapon could be employed on her behalf. From the hour that the possibility of this was demonstrated, and a draft successfully enforced by the Union government, the issue was virtually decided. Despair might protract the contest, but the utter exhaustion of Southern resources was only a question of time. Was it necessary to permit the war to pass from the first into the second stage? Might not the victory of the Union volunteers have been pushed so rapidly as to have prevented the South from enforcing the conscription law over any considerable portion of her territory, and thus have ended the contest at once? These were questions of tremendous importance, which could only be answered in the months of April and May, 1862. Then was a golden opportunity which once lost could only be regained by years of desperate fighting. A half-dozen great victories in midsummer would be of less real value than a vigorous advance in the spring, which should at once discourage the enemy, while at the lowest point of his fortunes, and prevent the recruiting of his armies by conscription. It has often been said that the North did not win any decisive advantage until the abolition of slavery. This is true, but it does not in the least contradict the view just advanced. That great measure committed the North absolutely to the conquest of the South, and thus led to exertions adequate to the end sought. Yet we must conclude, reasoning from a military point of view only, that if the same exertions had been put forth earlier, they would have been even more speedily effective.