As we left Lafayette behind, the sky, which had been clouded for days, suddenly cleared. The sun shone in beauty, and smiled on the first faint dawnings of spring that lay in tender green on the surrounding hills. What would I not have given for such a day forty-eight hours earlier! But even then it was very welcome, and my spirit grew more light as I breathed the fresh air and listened to the singing of the birds.
My companions were quite talkative, and I responded as well as I could. They even tried to make me think that the extraordinary manner in which I was tied and guarded—with which I reproached them—was a compliment, showing that they had formed a high opinion of my daring character! Their conversation was pleasant and courteous enough, except that when they passed houses they would cry out, "We've got a live Yankee here!" Then men, women, and children would rush to the door, staring as if they saw some great monster, and asking,—
"Whar did you ketch him? Goin' to hang him when you get him to Chattanooga?" and similar expressions without number.
I cared little for this at first, but its perpetual recurrence was not without its effect in making me think that they really would hang me. In fact, my prospects were far from encouraging; yet I considered it my duty to keep up my spirits and hold despair at arm's length while any possible ground for hope remained. The afternoon wore slowly away as we journeyed amid grand and romantic scenery that in any other circumstances would have been enthusiastically enjoyed. But now my thoughts were otherwise engaged.
I was not so much afraid of death in itself as of the manner in which it was likely to come. Death amid the smoke and excitement and glory of battle never had seemed half so terrible as it now did when it stood, an awful spectre, beside the gallows! And even sadder it was to think of friends who would count the weary months, waiting and longing for my return, till hope became torturing suspense, and suspense deepened into despair. These and kindred thoughts were almost too much for my fortitude; yet, setting my teeth hard, I resolved to endure patiently to the end.
The sun went down, and night came on,—deep, calm, and clear. One by one the stars twinkled into light. I gazed upon their beauty with new feelings, as I wondered whether a few more suns might not set me free from the short story of earthly things and make me a dweller beyond the sky. A spirit of prayer and the faint beginnings of trust stirred within me. Hitherto I had been looking at passing events alone, and refusing to contemplate the great new experiences death would open. But now my thoughts took a new direction. God was helping me, and inclining my heart upward. I was to pass through many more terrible scenes and taste bitter sorrows before I could recognize His voice and fully repose on His love. I was not then a member of church nor a professor of religion. I believed the doctrines of Christianity, and purposed some day to give them practical attention. It had been easy to postpone this purpose, and, latterly, the confusion and bustle of camp-life had almost driven the subject out of my mind. But now God appeared very near, and, even amid foes and dangers, I seemed to have hold of some hand, firm but kind, beyond the reach of vision. What influence was most powerful in turning my thoughts upward I cannot tell,—whether it was the familiar outlines of the grand constellations, the quiet and stillness all around, so congenial to exhausted nature after the excitement of the last few days, or a yet more direct message from the Highest,—I only know that the memory of that evening, when I was carried, chained, down the long hill to the valley in which Chattanooga lies, there to meet an unknown fate, is one of the sweetest of my life. My babbling guards had subsided into silence, and, as we wended along through the gathering darkness, high and noble thoughts of the destiny of man filled my breast, and death appeared only a mere incident of existence,—the gate out of one department of being into another. I was nerved for any fate.
It may be thought strange that in these moments of reflection and spiritual yearning I had no feeling of remorse for any of the deceptions of which I had been guilty. But I had not. It did not even occur to me to consider them as sins at all. If necessary or expedient I would then have added to them the sanction of an oath with equal recklessness. Some sophistry—felt rather than reasoned out—about the lawfulness of deceiving or injuring public enemies or rebels in any possible way—a conviction that they had forfeited everything, even their right to be told truth—must have controlled me. Before starting on this expedition I had placed the highest value on truth, and would have regarded a wilful lie with scorn and loathing. But I accepted deception as one of the incidents of the enterprise, and all sense of its wrongfulness passed away, and did not return until long afterwards.
We arrived at Chattanooga while a feeble glow of the soft spring twilight lingered in the air. The headquarters of General Leadbetter, then district commander, was in one of the principal hotels of the town, and we at once drove there. I was left in the carriage while the major ascended to inform him of the arrival.
The town had already been informed. The curiosity to see one of the men who had captured the train and frightened the women and children of Chattanooga into the woods only two days before was intense, and a very large crowd soon assembled. They behaved as such assemblages usually did, jeering and hooting, and calling me by every epithet of reproach the language afforded,—wanting to know why I came down there to burn their property and murder them and their children as well as free their negroes. To these multitudinous questions and assertions I made no answer. I was much amused (afterward!) by their criticisms of my appearance. One would say that "it was a pity so young and clever-looking a man should be caught in such a scrape." Another, of more penetrating cast, "could tell that he was a rogue by his looks,—probably came out of prison in his own country." Another was surprised that I could hold up my head and look around on honest men, arguing that such brazen effrontery in one so young was a proof of enormous depravity of heart. I gave no opinion on the subject. Indeed, I was not asked.
There was one man I noticed in particular. He was tall and venerable-looking; had gray hair, gray beard, a magnificent forehead, and, altogether, a commanding and intellectual expression. He was treated with marked deference by the throng, and as they parted and allowed him to come up to my carriage, the thought arose, "Surely I will receive some sympathy from that kind and noble-looking man."