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

by William Pittenger

All secrecy was at an end, and the only remaining hope was in headlong flight. Our comrades in the yard saw their peril, and were in a little better position than those of us who were still inside the jail. They let go their terrified enemies, flung away the guns, which now could only impede their flight, and, scaling the board fence, made for the woods nearly a mile away. Even for the foremost of them it was a fearful race. Rebel bullets whistled around their ears, but none of them was hit. Indeed, I am inclined to think that it was a fortunate thing for our comrades that the rebels had guns to carry, and stopped to fire whenever they came near a fugitive. Otherwise hundreds of fresh, vigorous soldiers—for there were soon hundreds on the scene—could have run down a dozen half-starved prisoners.

Fry and myself started down-stairs together as soon as Buffum had opened the last door,—only a moment after the alarm had been given, but moments were more precious then than common months. The captain was a little in advance. His eagle eye took in the situation, as in two leaps he cleared the stairway. He saw there was no chance in the front yard, now filled with armed rebels, and darted to the back door, found a passage to the yard fence, scaled it just before a complete guard was stretched around the prison, was fired at on the fence, but descended in safety, and run in a different direction from the other fugitives. Finally, a soldier levelled his musket at him, and he fell. One of our own men who saw this, and no more, reported that he was killed, and we long mourned the brave man as dead. But this was only a stratagem to gain his breath for a moment. His pursuers turned towards other game, and he rose, and, after a second hard chase, gained the cover of the woods. Thirty days after he had reached Nashville in safety.

I was to have been his companion, according to the allotment we made before leaving the prison, and our boys almost envied me the advantage of being with so experienced a mountain traveller. But a moment's misfortune made this advantage unavailing, and doomed me to further sufferings. My eyes have always been defective, and especially sensitive to sudden variations of light. When I came from the dark prison room (the hall was equally dark) into full light, for a moment I could see nothing distinctly. I lost sight of Fry. It would not do to stand still, and I rushed for the prison-gate. Many a time defective vision has been a source of annoyance and vexation, but never so much as then. Before getting to the gate I could see better, and was confronted by two soldiers, who were tossing their guns about in a distracted manner, and crying, "What shall we do? Oh, what shall we do?" They did not look dangerous, and I ran by; but just in the gate I met a stream of fresh guards coming on the run. Of course they halted me, and equally, of course, I did not halt, but turned back towards the jail. There were other guards around, one of whom snapped his gun at me when not two yards away. I eluded them, got into the jail again, and out at the back door. This time I reached the top of the yard fence, but a dozen muskets were lifted from the outside to fire. To jump down on that side was inevitable death. One chance only remained. Possibly the gate now was not watched! I sprang back into the yard, and other guards were after me. The prison-door was open, and I entered, seeking to pass through it as before, and get outside the gate for a clear race. But the front door was now guarded also, and, as I turned, I found my pursuers in the back door. I was fairly trapped,—back in the prison again! It was a terrible situation. If I could crush between the two men who stood with loaded muskets in the door, their comrades were outside, and it was simply death to attack them. In sheer desperation, I turned my back upon them, not caring whether they fired or not, and walked up-stairs to a window, from which I could see something of the fearful race still going on, and note the streams of troops pouring towards the prison. My guards pointed their guns at me, but did not offer to come near, and when I walked from the hall window into a room,—not our own, but another which commanded a better view,—I found in it the four Federal soldiers, its former occupants, who had made no attempt to get away, the alarm and the rapid firing which followed convincing them that it was safer to remain where they were.

Parrott and Reddick were recaptured inside the wall, like myself. Buffum got over the wall about the same time as Captain Fry, but was less fortunate. A soldier singled him out, and squarely ran him down. When hardly able to drag another step, and with the inexorable armed runner within a rod of him, Buffum tried a "Yankee trick." (He was a native of Massachusetts.) Sinking down exhausted, he said, "I surrender. You can go on and get that other fellow," pointing to one a few rods away. "No," answered the man, with a great oath, "I've got you, and I mean to keep you." So he stood with his gun aimed until some of his comrades arrived, and poor Buffum was marched back to jail. Had the man taken his advice, and looked for a bird in the bush, the one in hand would doubtless have flown. Mason and Bensinger were also captured outside of the wall, making a recapture of six and an escape of nine,—a better result than I had supposed probable when we planned the attempt.

From the window of the front room where I then was I had a good view of the proceedings below. In a short time a large body of troops, including a regiment of cavalry, were drawn up in front of the jail. I heard Colonel Lee give his orders. He said, "Don't take one of the villains alive. Shoot them down wherever you find them," with many similar expressions, which were possibly meant for the benefit of those inside the prison as well as for the troops. He also ordered pickets to be placed at the ferries of the Chattahoochee, along the railroad, and also at all cross-roads,—an arrangement that pleased me, for we had agreed to avoid those very places. Our intention had been to travel in the night-time through the woods, and to cross the rivers on logs as far from ferries as possible.

Hearing some confused sounds of distress from the room of the Tennesseeans, I inquired the cause, and learned that a young man, named Barlow, who alone of their number had attempted to escape, had broken his ankle. This injury was received in jumping from the outside fence. He was driven back to the prison room, where surgical aid was refused, and he finally died after great suffering.

Of all who were up-stairs at the time the alarm was given, only Fry and one other man succeeded in escaping. The latter was a deserter from the rebel army, and being very active and fleet, reached the shelter of the woods in advance of all the fugitives.

From the window I could hear the guards, all night long, talking over their adventures. Generally they praised their own bravery liberally, but occasionally some one who had arrived later would suggest that it was not much to their credit to let unarmed men snatch their guns from them; but such suggestions were not kindly received, and the work of self-glorification went on. One of them expressed astonishment at the speed of the Yankees, who had been so long kept in jail; another accounted for it by the abundant practice in running Yankee soldiers had received in battle!

All night long I lay in a hammock which one of the regular soldiers had swung by the window, but now kindly resigned to me, and listened to the boastful conversation below.

"Sadly I thought of the morrow."