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

by William Pittenger

An effort was here made to get recruits out of the prison for the Confederate army. Especially were the regular soldiers who were in our company importuned. But our band were not asked. I presume they thought we could not be trusted. Had the offer now been made I would not have accepted, though I would have done so without hesitation at any time preceding the death of our friends. Now my religious principles would have prevented me from taking the oath of allegiance to the Confederacy for the mere purpose of breaking it by desertion. But I was glad the temptation was not offered to any of our band.

At length there came to us most startling news,—a court-martial was again convened! This was the first since the ever-memorable one at Knoxville, and we awaited its action with breathless interest. A week of sickening suspense passed and no summons came for us. Had we been ordered out for trial we had resolved to try again to escape, even if the effort only resulted in throwing us on the bayonets of the surrounding guards. But when news came that the court had adjourned, we were as much rejoiced as we had been fearful before. It did look as if they intended to persecute the feeble remnant of our party no further; and passing from the extreme of despondency to that of hope, we began once more to indulge the blissful expectations of exchange. But our time had not yet come.

The weeks rolled on. Few things worthy of note occurred. The same monotony which makes prison-life so dreary robs it of interest when recorded. We would rise in the morning from our hard bed—the floor—and wash ourselves by pouring water on each other's hands; then eat our scanty rations when brought. Then the effort was to kill time until dinner came, which was about four o'clock. It was not abundant, but if we had a bundle of roasted sweet potatoes to add from our own stores, as often happened, it was not so bad. Then we did anything to keep busy until the gas was lit. This was kept burning all night, not from any favor to us, but only that the guards might see that we were not arranging any plan for escaping.

This was the most cheerful hour of the day, for under the soft inspiration of the gaslight conversation flowed freely, and all the incidents of our past lives were rehearsed. Wells or some other rebel officer would often enter and talk with us. Arguments and discussion on all manner of subjects were introduced, and often continued until the midnight bells were striking in the town. Then would come our evening prayers as we lay down to dream often of home and friends and freedom. In the morning the same round recommenced. Thus days glided into weeks, and weeks passed into months. The golden hues of autumn deepened into the sombre colors of early winter, and still we were in Atlanta. It almost seemed as if we would never be anywhere else.

At length there came a day of wonderful joy. A number of officers, including the provost-marshal, came to the barracks, and, inquiring out our room, had us all drawn up in line. One of them stepped forth and addressed us, saying that he had good news to communicate, which they had been hoping to receive for some time past. He continued, "You have all been exchanged, and all that now remains is to send you out of our territory by way of Richmond and City Point."

Each of them then came along our line and shook hands with us,—the Tennesseeans and regular soldiers included, twenty in all,—offering congratulations on the happy terminations of our trials, and wishing us much joy on our arrival at home.

Our feelings were indescribable, but strangely mingled. There was an overwhelming rush of emotions which forbade utterance,—rapture exceedingly great, and yet mingled with a deep touch of sorrow that our seven dead—murdered—comrades were not with us to share the joy of this hour. And the eight also who had managed to get out of the clutches of the rebels by their own daring,—we were uneasy about them. Only a day or two before we had seen in an Atlanta paper, obtained, as usual, through the negroes, who were waiters here as well as at the jail, an article clipped from the Cincinnati Commercial, telling of the arrival of Porter and Wollam at Corinth, as narrated above. Of the others we had received no reliable information, but supposed that some of them at least had perished. The provost-marshal told us that three had been shot and left in the woods, but we did not fully credit him.

Notwithstanding all this, the prospect of liberty was enough to make our hearts overflow with gratitude to God. I was so agitated that when Wells asked me to write a requisition for provisions for the trip to Richmond I could not do it, and had to transfer the work to more steady hands. It was nine o'clock in the morning when we received the glad news, and we were to start for home—via Richmond—at seven in the evening. As the time for departure drew near, we again lit the gas, and made up a fire, the ruddy blaze of which was an emblem of cheerfulness, to take a farewell view of the room in which we had spent so many not altogether unhappy hours. Often afterwards did we remember that bright hour of expectation.

We were forbidden to take any blankets with us, being told that we would soon be where blankets were plenty. The pieces of carpet we had managed to secure as blankets were therefore left behind, with the exception of two small strips, which were afterwards very serviceable. A great surprise met us when we were ordered to start. We were not tied! This was the first journey on which we had been sent so carelessly, and it afforded the strongest presumption that the exchange was a reality.

All was now in readiness for our departure, and we took a last look at rebel Atlanta. The guards fell in on each side of us, and we wended our way along the dark streets. Wells, even drunker than usual, accompanied us to the cars, where he hiccoughed an affectionate farewell. I carried away one good article of dress,—a nice felt hat. The day before Wells clapped it on my head, telling me that I looked better in it than in my own shabby cap. I supposed that it was only a freak, and that he would reclaim it again, but he did not. It was much out of suit with my other garments, but I wore it until I had a chance to sell it for a great price—in Confederate money!