Our patience was rewarded. We had started too soon, and from this miscalculation all our perplexity arose. A few men, whom we recognized almost instinctively as belonging to our party, came along the road in the right direction. A little guarded conversation showed us that we were right, and we strolled slowly on with them. Shortly afterwards others overtook us, among whom was Andrews. This was a great relief, as we now had a guide. Soon we were as far from Shelbyville as Ross and I alone had been, and a few hundred yards farther on fell in with still other men. Our party had so greatly increased as to be quite conspicuous, and it was advisable to add still further security to the cover of the night. Accordingly, we left the road for some distance, and, marching silently, were soon at the appointed rendezvous.

A little thicket of dead and withered trees, a short distance from the road, and sufficiently open to a.s.sure us that no listener was near, was the place of our a.s.semblage. Never was a consultation preparatory to some desperate deed held under more fitting circ.u.mstances. The storm which had been gathering all the evening was now near. Black clouds covered one half the sky, and the young moon, low down in the west, was soon obscured. The frequent flashes of lightning, more vivid in the darkness, and the low roll of thunder that followed, grew continually more emphatic, forming most startling interruptions to the earnest but suppressed words of our leader. It is very singular that amid these ominous surroundings, which fitted so well the character of the business in hand, one ordinary sound stands out in my memory, far more clear and distinct than any part of the scene. Far off I heard the bark or howl of a dog,--no doubt at some farm-house,--roused either by the coming storm which began to sway the leafless boughs above us, or by the pa.s.sing of some belated traveller. Popular superst.i.tion would probably have considered such a sound as ominous of evil; and most of us are superst.i.tious when young, in the dark, and entering upon unknown dangers.

We formed a close circle around Mr. Andrews while he revealed to us his daring plans. In a voice as soft and low as a woman's, but tremulous with suppressed enthusiasm, he painted the greatness of the project we were to attempt, the sublimity of rushing through a hostile country at the full speed of steam, leaving flaming bridges and raging but powerless foes behind. But he did not disguise the dangers to be encountered.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Midnight Consultation.

Page 32.]

"Soldiers," he said, "if you are detected while engaged in this business, the great probability is that you will be put to death,--hung as spies, or ma.s.sacred by a mob. I want you to clearly understand this, and if you are not willing to take the risk, return to camp, and keep perfectly quiet about it."

A murmur all around the circle conveyed the a.s.surance that we would follow him to the last extremity.

"Our plan," he continued, "is simply this: you are to travel on foot, or by any conveyance you can hire, either to Chattanooga or some station not far from that point on the Memphis and Charleston Railroad; then you can take pa.s.sage on the cars down to Marietta; that will be our next place of a.s.sembling, and not Atlanta. You must be there by Thursday evening, ready to take pa.s.sage on the cars northward again by Friday morning. I will be there as soon as you, and tell you what more is to be done."

"But how about money to pay our way?" was asked.

"I have plenty of Confederate money, and will share it among you before we part. As to your story, you cannot do better than to tell everybody that you are Kentuckians coming South to get away from the Yankees, and to join the Confederate army; only be careful to have always some plausible reason for going farther before joining. A great many Kentuckians have gone South by this route, and are very heartily received. If you will go eastward through Wartrace and Manchester, you will get into the track they usually take, and by then turning south, you will not appear to be heading from the Union army. If any one of you are questioned closely, you may say you are from Fleming County, for I happen to know that no soldiers from that county are in this part of the country."

All of these directions were eagerly listened to, but the closing one afterwards bore disastrous fruit.

One of the soldiers asked, "If any of us are suspected, and find we can't get away, what would you ad vise us to do?"

"Enlist without hesitation in the rebel army," was the response. "You are fully authorized to do that, and no one of this party will be accused of desertion, even if captured among the rebels. I would be sorry to lose any one of you, but it will be far better that you should serve awhile with the enemy than to acknowledge who you are, and thus risk the disclosure of the enterprise."

"But is it likely that we could get the chance thus to enlist?" it was further asked.

"Most certainly," said Andrews. "They are taking all the prisoners out of the jails and enlisting them. They are picking up men who have run away from the conscription wherever they can find them, and serving them in the same manner. If you tell your story and stick to it, even if they are not satisfied that you are telling the truth, they will put you into the service. You can stay until some dark night on picket. But I hope you will escape all trouble, and all meet me at Marietta safely. Break this party up into squads of three or four, and don't recognize each other on the way. I will ride along the same country you are travelling, and give you any help or direction in my power. But you must not recognize me unless sure that we are not observed."

There was but one subject on which I cared to ask any questions, and that related to a distant contingency. I was well informed as to the first part of the intended enterprise.

"Suppose we succeed in capturing the train," I said, "and in burning the bridges, are we then to leave the train, and try to steal back to our lines in the same way we are now going South?"

"By no means," replied Mr. Andrews. "We will run the train right through Chattanooga, and westward until we meet Mitchel, who by that time will be coming eastward on the road from Memphis. If we should not quite reach him, we will get so close that we can dash through in a body."

This was satisfactory as far as it went, but there was still another contingency. More than anything else I dreaded being left alone in an unknown country.

"If we fail to run the captured train through Chattanooga, will we then disperse or stick together?"

"After we meet at Marietta, we will keep together, and, if necessary, cut our way back to our own lines. Form your squads now, and I will give out the money."

Swiftly we selected our companions. There was little time for choice.

Most of the men were strangers. The darkness was intense, and the thunder-peals almost overhead. In a moment we formed six or seven little groups. My former comrade, Ross, stood with another man or two beside Andrews. Two men from Captain Mitchel's company and one from the next company to that in the regimental line stood by my side. Andrews went from group to group, giving out the money freely, and answering questions that were still asked. When this was accomplished, he addressed himself once more to the whole number, and we crowded around to listen to his parting words. They gave us the fullest insight into the whole plan we had yet received.

"To-morrow morning," said he, "Mitchel, with his whole army, will start on a forced march right south to Huntsville. He will capture that town not later than Friday (it was now Monday night), and will then turn east towards Chattanooga. We must burn the bridges south of Chattanooga the same day, for after that, the road will be crowded with trains bringing reinforcements against him and running property away, and our task will be very much harder. So we have no time to lose. We must be at Marietta on Thursday evening. The last train for that station leaves Chattanooga at five o'clock in the afternoon. Be sure to catch it. Good-by."

He gave each of us his hand with a hearty pressure and fervent good wishes. Not many moments after, the storm broke over us with all its fury. The rain fell in torrents. The last glimpse I caught of Andrews as my party of four hurried on their prescribed course was by means of a broad glare of lightning that made the drenched landscape for a moment as bright as day. He had just parted from the last group and was gazing after us.

CHAPTER III.

COMPANIONS AND INCIDENTS.

Who was this Mr. Andrews, from whom we had just parted in storm and darkness,--the man from whose brain sprang the Chattanooga Railroad Expedition, and to whose keeping we had so fearlessly committed our lives? Few of us knew much about him at that time, but became wiser afterwards. As he is the hero of the earlier part of this story, it may be well to give the reader the benefit of all the information as to his character and history subsequently obtained.

Mr. J. J. Andrews was born in that part of Western Virginia known as the "Pan Handle," on the eastern bank of the Ohio River, and only separated from my own county of Jefferson by that stream. While quite young he had removed to the mountains of Eastern Kentucky, settling in Fleming County. Here he acquired considerable wealth, but at the outbreak of the civil war lost most of it again. While in business here he travelled over much of the South, and became acquainted with many men whom the war afterwards threw into prominence. At the first outbreak of hostilities he joined the Union army, not as a soldier, but in the still more useful and dangerous character of a spy and secret negotiator. He accompanied General Nelson in his Eastern Kentucky campaign, on which occasion I had seen him at Pres...o...b..rg, and afterwards he journeyed back and forth two or three times from Nashville before the capture of that city. He also spent several days in Fort Donelson during the week preceding its capture by General Grant. At this place he narrowly escaped detection. Subsequently he visited Atlanta and brought back much valuable information. By representing himself as a blockade-runner, and carrying southward through our lines articles of small bulk but of great value to the enemy, he secured their confidence and brought back information a hundredfold more valuable. This business was pecuniarily profitable to himself as well as very serviceable to the Union army. A Mr. Whiteman, of Nashville, afterwards testified that he had paid him ten thousand dollars for one cargo, the most of which was clear profit.

Some of the Southern officers with whom he was intimate had bestowed upon him pa.s.ses authorizing him to come and go through their lines at pleasure. It is not my intention to offer any apology for a man who thus betrays the confidence even of rebels. What justice requires to be said on this subject will find a more appropriate place in explaining the position of those who accompanied him in his last and most perilous journey. His occupation was one of the utmost danger, and he could not expect much mercy if detected. He had even gone the length of taking the oath of allegiance to the Southern Confederacy, though he was pa.s.sionately loyal to the old government. Indeed, his hatred for secession and everything connected with it had become the more intense from the very disguise he so frequently a.s.sumed; and the desire to work all possible injury to that cause had far more influence in inducing him to pursue his perilous vocation than any hope of reward. I have since been told by Southern authorities that he acknowledged being promised fifty thousand dollars reward in case he succeeded in destroying the bridges from Atlanta to Chattanooga, but I never heard of such a contract. Certainly no reward whatever was promised directly or indirectly to the soldiers who accompanied him, and I never heard Andrews himself speak of expecting any pecuniary recompense.

Mr. Andrews was nearly six feet in height, of powerful frame, black hair, and long, black, and silken beard, Roman features, a high and expansive forehead, and a voice fine and soft as a woman's. Of polished manners, stately presence, and more than ordinary personal beauty, wide information, great shrewdness and sagacity, he was admirably fitted to win favor in a community like that of the South, which has always placed a high value on personal qualities. He had also the clear forethought in devising complicated schemes, and the calmness in the hour of danger necessary for the perilous game he played. Carrying his life in his hand whenever he ventured beyond the Union pickets, involved continually in dangers, where a single thoughtless word, or even an unguarded look, might lead to detection and death, he had learned to rely absolutely on his own resources, and to contemplate with easy familiarity enterprises that would have looked like sheer madness to one without this preliminary drill.

But it was said that even he had grown tired of this perpetual risk, and intended, if successful in this last and most difficult enterprise, to retire to peaceful life. A tender influence conspired to the same end, and imparts a dash of romance to his story. He was engaged to be married in the following June, and intended then to retire from the army. Alas!

June had a far different fate in store for him.

At our interview in the afternoon, as well as in the midnight consultation, Andrews impressed me as a man who combined intellect and refinement with the most dauntless courage. Yet his pensive manner, slow speech, and soft voice indicated not obscurely what I afterwards found to be almost his only fault as a leader,--a hesitancy in deciding important questions on the spur of the moment, and in backing his decision by prompt, vigorous action. This did not detract from his value as a secret agent when alone, for then all his actions were premeditated and accomplished with surpa.s.sing coolness and bravery; but it was otherwise in commanding men in startling and unforeseen emergencies.

This trait of character will be more fully developed in the course of the story.

How were the soldiers selected who a.s.sembled that evening at the rendezvous? This question was asked with curiosity and wonder by the enemy, and is of great importance in estimating the treatment of such of their number as were afterwards captured. The enemy could not, by their utmost exertions, obtain correct information on this subject; but there is now no reason for reticence. The nature of the enterprise was such that it could not be publicly explained and volunteers called for, as it was quite possible that spies of the enemy were in our camp; neither was it right, according to the laws of war, to divest soldiers of their uniform and place them under the orders of a spy without their full consent. A medium course was adopted, which avoided the opposite difficulties as far as possible. The captains who were ordered to furnish each a man gathered a few of their soldiers about them in a quiet way, and stated that a volunteer was wanted for a very dangerous enterprise. Of those who professed willingness to go one was selected, taken aside from the others, and told simply that he was to be sent disguised into the heart of the enemy's country, under the orders of a Southern citizen, whom the commanding officers trusted fully. If they felt like engaging in this service, with all its risks, they could see this man and learn more; but if not, they would be at liberty to decline the dangerous honor. In one or two cases these preliminary explanations were so vague that the men addressed did not fairly understand the matter, and subsequently declared that if they had been more fully informed they would not have taken the first step. After they met Andrews, however, they felt that their reputation was at stake, and were not willing to "back out." In one or two other cases the men were merely selected by their captains and ordered, without any preliminary explanations, to report to Andrews outside of the lines.

Twenty-four men were thus detailed, twenty-three of whom met at the rendezvous. The twenty-fourth we never heard of; whether he tried to reach us and failed, or whether some one of the captains who was to furnish a man was unable to induce any one to accept the dangerous honor, is uncertain. Indeed, there must have been a failure of two men, for we had one with us who was not originally expected to go. Captain Mitchel had one man to furnish, and Perry G. Shadrach was chosen.

William Campbell, a native of Salineville, Ohio, but for many years a citizen of Kentucky, a man of wild and adventurous habits, was visiting Shadrach, and at once asked and obtained permission to go with him.

Though he was only a civilian, we always spoke of him as an enlisted soldier of Captain Mitchel's company.

While we are splashing along in the darkness and under the fast-falling rain, it may be a good time to describe the members of the squad with whom I travelled. Shadrach and Campbell were two of its members. The former was small but roundly built, a merry, reckless fellow, often profane, easily put out of temper, but very kind, and willing to sacrifice anything for a friend. Campbell was physically the strongest man of the whole party and possibly of Mitchel's division as well. He weighed two hundred and twenty pounds, was perfectly proportioned, very active, apparently fond of danger for its own sake, and as true as steel. Neither of these two men possessed much skill in duplicity or shrewdness in planning. They were willing to leave the task of asking and answering questions to their comrades, but were always ready to bear their full share in action.

The third, George D. Wilson, of Cincinnati, was of very different character. He was not highly educated, though he had read a great deal, but in natural shrewdness I have rarely, if ever, known his equal. He was of middle age, whilst most of us had just pa.s.sed out of boyhood. He had traveled extensively, and had observed and remembered everything he encountered. In the use of fiery and scorching denunciations he was a master, and took great delight in overwhelming an opponent with an unmeasured torrent of abuse. In action he was brave and cool; no danger could frighten him, no emergency find him unprepared. The friendship I felt for him grew steadily until his tragic death. I depended on his judgment and advice more than on that of any one in the whole expedition.

The writer was first corporal in Company G of the Second Regiment of Ohio Volunteers, and had just been promoted to the position of sergeant.

I was twenty-two years of age, a native of Jefferson County, Ohio, had been reared on a farm, had taught school in the winters, and more recently had entered on the study of law. My opportunities for acquiring knowledge were very limited, but had been tolerably well improved. I had read a good many volumes and gained a fair English education. For war and warlike affairs I had not the slightest taste, and was indeed so near-sighted that it was very doubtful whether I could ever make an efficient soldier. When the call for three months' troops was made at the bombardment of Fort Sumter, I felt that the emergency was so great as to require the services of every patriot, and immediately enlisted. I did not then contemplate a longer term of service, as I believed that the government would be able to organize an adequate force within that period from those who were better adapted to the profession of arms. My decision to enter the ranks was not made without some forethought. Just previous to putting my name to the enlistment paper, I took a solitary night walk and tried to bring up in imagination all the perils and discomforts that were possible in military service, asking myself whether I was willing to endure any of them that might fall to my lot as the result of the step I then contemplated. Having decided, I returned to the ma.s.s-meeting (convened in the court-house of Steubenville, Ohio) and entered my name as a volunteer. The company formed that night was hurried to Washington, and on the route was organized with others into the Second Ohio Regiment. During the three months' service our only experience of fighting was in the badly-managed battle, or rather skirmish, of Bull Run. On the battle-field, when the tide of fortune turned against us, I concluded that I ought to re-enlist for two reasons. It was hard to quit the army with no experience but that of defeat, and the country's need of men was still urgent. When the Second Ohio was reorganized for three years' service, I therefore continued in the ranks. We were sent to Eastern Kentucky, and succeeded, after some trifling engagements, in clearing that part of the State from rebels. We were then ordered to Louisville, and greatly to my delight were put under the command of the astronomer Mitchel. A few years before I had studied astronomy enthusiastically, and had even gone so far as to construct a ten-foot telescope for my own use. This similarity of tastes led me to feel greatly delighted, and almost acquainted, with our new general. His fame as an astronomer did not guarantee his success in war; but the ability displayed in one profession was a hopeful indication for the other. Our division partic.i.p.ated in the advance upon Bowling Green and afterwards upon Nashville. This service offered no hardship except wintry marches, for the capture of Fort Donelson by General Grant had broken the enemy's resistance. During this march there was not perfect accord between Mitchel and his less energetic superior, General Buell.

Even the soldiers learned something of their disputes, and were much gratified when, at Nashville, Mitchel was detached from the main army and left to operate independently. In three days he marched to Murfreesborough, where this narrative opens.

[Ill.u.s.tration: WILLIAM PITTENGER.

[1882--twenty years later.]

Page 42.]

On parting from Andrews we worked our way eastward, keeping not far from the railroad leading to Wartrace. We did not wish to travel very far through the rain, which was almost pouring down, but only to get well beyond the Federal pickets, so as to have a clear track for a long journey on the following day. We wished to elude our own pickets, not only to avoid detention, but to gain a little practice in such work. It was our intention to get that night beyond Wartrace, where our last outpost in that direction was stationed; but our progress was so slow and fatiguing that we changed our minds, and determined to find a lodging at once. This resolution was more easily made than accomplished.

For a long time we searched in vain. It seemed as if the country was uninhabited. At length the barking of a dog gave a clue, which was diligently followed. The better to prosecute the search, we formed a line within hearing distance of each other, and then swept around in all directions. A barn was our first discovery, but we were so completely wet and chilled that we resolved to persevere in hope of a bed and a fire.

Shortly after, finding a rude, double log house, we roused the inmates and demanded shelter for the night. The farmer was evidently alarmed, but let us in, and then began to investigate our character.

I narrate minutely the events that accompanied our first setting out, not so much for their intrinsic interest, as for the sake of giving a vivid idea of the conduct required by the nature of our expedition. This may also be a good place to answer a question often asked, "How can the equivocation and downright falsehood that follows be justified?" I am not bound to attempt any formal justification; but it is easy to show that all the moral question involved is only a branch of the larger question as to the morality of war. In its very nature, war is compounded of force and fraud in nearly equal quant.i.ties. If one of the necessary ingredients be wrong, the other can hardly be right. The most conscientious general thinks nothing of making movements with the sole purpose of deceiving his adversary, or of writing absolutely false despatches for the same purpose. If it be right to kill our fellow-beings, I suppose it is also right to deceive them in order to get a better chance to kill them! The golden rule, which is the basis of all morality, has but little place as between hostile armies or nations.

To find where some unsuspecting persons are asleep, and steal upon them, begin to shoot and stab before they can wake to defend themselves, would, in peace, be thought a crime of the most dastardly and ferocious character; but, in war, it is only a surprise, and, if successful, confers the greatest honor upon those who plan and execute it. Are there two sets of morals,--the one for peace, the other for war? "But," the objector may continue, "is not a constant resort to falsehood in a secret expedition peculiarly dishonorable?" Let us look this question fairly in the face. All armies employ spies, and the old adage, "The receiver is as bad as the thief," is here fully applicable. A general who induces a man, by the hope of money or promotion, to go disguised into the enemy's lines, with a lie in his mouth, for the general's advantage, is a full partner in the enterprise, and cannot throw off his share of the guilt. It is true that the laws of war throw all the odium on the spy. But the generals, and not the spies, made the laws of war.

Besides, there is no necessary connection between the laws of war and the laws of morality. The former are merely the rules men construct for the regulation of the most tremendous of all their games, and can never affect the essence of right and wrong. I do not wish to argue the abstract right of deceiving an enemy, or of deviating from the strict truth for any purpose whatever. It is enough for my purpose to show that deception is an element in all war. The candid reader will also consider that most of us were very young. The common sentiment of the camp was that deceiving a rebel in any manner was a meritorious action. With the full sanction of our officers, we had entered upon an expedition which required disguise and deception. We had been expressly told that we were not even to hesitate in joining the rebel army,--which implied taking the oath of allegiance to the Confederacy,--if that step became necessary to avoid detection. In the whole of this expedition we were true to each other and to the mission upon which we had entered, but we did not hesitate at any kind or degree of untruthfulness directed towards the enemy. Such was the effect of our resolution in this direction that no one, so far as I remember, ever expressed any sorrow or remorse for any of the falsehoods that were so plentifully employed.

Indeed, while the war lasted, I did not find a single person, in the army or out, who ever criticised our expedition from the _moral_ stand-point. There seemed to be some kind of an instinctive feeling that the revolted States had forfeited all their rights by rebellion,--even that of having the truth told to them. I confess that deception was very painful to me at first, and from inclination, as well as policy, I used it as sparingly as possible. But practice made it comparatively easy and pleasant, within the limits indicated above.

We did not wait for all these reasonings before we began to practise deception upon our host. He was informed that we were Kentuckians, disgusted with the tyranny of the Lincoln government, and seeking an asylum in the free and independent South. His reply was a grateful surprise. "Oh," said he, "you come on a bootless errand, and might as well go home again and make the best of it. The whole South will soon be as much under Lincoln as Kentucky is."