I noticed then, and have not forgotten in these twenty-five years, that the doctor was the last to say "Good-night" to Capitola; that he held her hand in his while he whispered, as he spoke in a low tone, some words that we did not hear, which seemed to amuse her immensely, as she only laughed in reply.

My acquaintance with the city streets and the haunts of the patrol at night enabled me to steer the party safely up to my old hotel on the Square, where we engaged one room and two beds. The quartette went to bed, but not to sleep. The doctor raved like a mad man about his agreeable evening in my company, and as his talk was altogether on the subject uppermost in my mind and heart, I enjoyed it as much as he did.

We occupied the same bed, and before sleeping I detailed to him the whole story of Capitola, Claiborne and myself, without giving myself away.

I saw there was going to be trouble between the Doctor from Texas and the Lieutenant from Mississippi, on account of my Maryland girl; just where _I_ was to appear, or where I was to come out of this affair, did not concern me so much as the hope that, somehow or other, when these two would get to quarreling over Capitola, that it would result in neither of them obtaining her, and the end would come about--like it should in all good stories--that I would yet march into Richmond some day in a Federal officer's uniform and claim her by reason of my devotion, and convince her that I was as plucky as any of the Southern men, worthy of a Federal officer's uniform, and of her love, etc., etc.

In the morning, after a hasty breakfast at the hotel, I escorted the boys down to Jeff Davis' office, in hopes that we might get a chance to see him come down through the square.

We were disappointed in this, as he had gotten in before we arrived. My companions were interested in having me point out to them some objects and persons of interest about the Capital, but the day was cold and dreary, compelling us to separate early.

The Texans were accustomed to the snow and slush of a Virginia winter, which interfered so much with their enjoyment that day.

I was the least bit uncertain about my status with our old Captain, as I had overstayed my leave all night, especially as I knew that Claiborne would be sure to let him know that I was in the city that night.

With the return of blue Monday morning, while out of sight of Capitola and away from the Texas boys, my small supply of common sense began to assert itself, and I saw that I was not only standing on a scaffold but the rope was about my neck. That something must be done at once was evident to the dullest sense. While pondering over what must be done, what might be the best course to pursue, having made up my mind not to return to the company at all, but to add desertion of the Rebel cause to the probable charges and specifications against me, by making a desperate effort to get North that night, I was hailed on the street by the Captain himself, who inquired rather savagely:

"Where in hell have you been?"

He interrupted my explanations abruptly by saying:

"We have orders to march, and all hands are getting ready; you go right out and pack up the papers."

This was news--good news, I thought--and, saying as much to the Captain, I ventured to ask if we were to go to Manassas.

"No, no; there is enough up there doing nothing; we are to go down to hunt for those damned Tennessee Unionists that are burning bridges."

This wasn't so satisfactory, but I was glad to hear that we were to leave Richmond _at once_, and I hastened to Camp Lee. Here I found everybody packing up, everything was in commotion, and I entered with zest into the preparation to leave Camp Lee.

Lieutenant Claiborne and one section of the battery were to remain in Richmond.

It appears that a sudden demand had been made on the Rebel War Department for troops to protect the railroad bridges in East Tennessee, and as our old Captain happened to be on good terms with the Secretary, he volunteered his company for this service, temporarily, as the Government seemed unable to supply them with guns to take to the field at Manassas.

So it happened that, on the evening of the same day, in company with the Colonel and Lanyard, we carried our bundle down street, stopped a moment at the familiar old restaurant to taste apple-jack once more, and, without an opportunity to say "Good-by" to Capitola, we spent the night on the railroad train, reaching some town for an early breakfast.

I had taken the precaution to drop in to see Colonel Jones, who had oversight of the mail service to the North as well as the general exchange of prisoners, and left with him a brief cipher dispatch for my friends North, explaining my change of base from Richmond; also, a note to some Texas friends, telling them our command had been ordered to _Manassas_, and expressing a hope to meet them there soon. I had been careful enough not to designate the battery explicitly or to name the officers.

CHAPTER XXI.

MARYLAND "REFUGEES"--COERCING INTO THE UNION EAST TENNESSEE "REFUGEES"--PARSON BROWNLOW INTERVIEWED--A HAPPY EXPERIENCE WITH MAGGIE CRAIG--THE BATTLE OF MILL SPRING--FIRST UNION VICTORY AS SEEN FROM INSIDE THE REBEL ARMY.

I reluctantly take the reader away from the Rebel Capital and its attractions. I was leaving Richmond at least, somewhat against my own inclination.

While lying curled up in a seat in the old emigrant car, that was being used to transport the troops, sleeping, and, perhaps, dreaming of "the girl I left behind me," I was roughly awakened by a sharp bump on the end of our train that sent me bouncing off the seat against the back of the one in front. When I hurriedly picked myself up and looked around me wildly, I realized that something had happened; and, as everybody else seemed to be rushing to the doors and windows, I made a reckless break in the same direction, but before I could get into the aisle of the car the floor of our car in the vicinity of where I was standing seemed to rise up suddenly. In the same instant I found that something had caught me by the left leg near my knee, which held me as in a vise. In my desperate struggles to extricate myself, I threw myself violently backward, my head striking the iron corner of an adjoining seat. I succeeded in breaking loose, but only after the car had come to a stop, and the danger was all past.

It was only a run-off, that caused the truck under our car to turn and twist itself upside down in such a way as to force part of the woodwork through the floor, resulting in squeezing my leg against the seat, so that it cut deeply into the flesh and left a mark big enough to entitle me to a pension--when the Rebel soldiers get their turn.

This happened near a little town located close upon the Virginia and East Tennessee line, named I think, Abington. We laid off there to repair damages--to the railroad. None of us were hurt seriously enough to require more than a patching up, which our private surgeon was competent to do. The accident, however, gave me an opportunity to meet, for the first time in many months, something that was pretty scarce in the Eastern part of Virginia at that time, namely--an outspoken Union man, who was also a native of Virginia.

When we learned that we should be delayed there until a couple of cars could be brought out to replace the broken ones, the Colonel and I concluded to strike out for ourselves, in search of some warm meals and perhaps a bed. With his assistance I limped along to a house standing some distance from the railroad track, where we applied for entertainment, offering pay for the same.

A tall, lank man met us pleasantly at his gate, and to our proposition he replied in a cordial, though dignified, manner so foreign to his appearance and surroundings that I was surprised.

"If you young gentlemen will step inside my house, my wife, no doubt, will be pleased to entertain you."

Inside the large, old-fashioned country house, such as I had seen more frequently in Pennsylvania than in Virginia, we were introduced to "Mother," as a couple of young gentlemen who had been belated by the railroad mishap, and desired some warm food.

I had been a soldier long enough then to understand, in a vague sort of a way, that the term "gentleman" was not properly applied to common soldiers, though we endeavored, by our conduct, to merit the title at this time. It was my zealous Rebel friend, the Colonel, who got into an argument with our host over the war question.

It was brought about by something that was said during the natural inquiries that follow such meetings as to where we came from, etc., when the Colonel rather boastfully, perhaps, informed him that we were a band of exiles from Maryland. We had enjoyed so much homage on this score while in Richmond that it had become a second nature to us to expect it as a matter of course from all quarters, and when this West Virginia gentleman rather quizzingly observed:

"Well, now, Mother, isn't this remarkable. Here are some Maryland secessionists being sent away down here to Tennessee to punish and coerce Unionists?"

It seems that this Unionist, who lived in what is now West Virginia, was a member of the State Legislature, and who was also a citizen of some prominence, highly esteemed, and looked upon as one of the leaders of this band of Unionists that devotedly remained steadfastly loyal throughout the war.

The general tenor of the conversation had the effect of reviving my interest, and served to stir anew my zeal for the cause. It also gave me a wonderful appetite for the old-fashioned, home-like meal that the good mother had been preparing for us, while the other fellows were talking.

That I enjoyed the good, warm supper more than the Colonel, was evident to all the household, because he had permitted the talk to raise his choler so that he was scarcely in a suitable frame of mind to appreciate the kind attention of the lady.

They declined our proffered pay for the entertainment, which had so generously been furnished. As we were about to leave, and while the Colonel and the host were yet predicting, each in his own way, all sorts of terrible dangers, I could not resist the temptation, while saying "Good-by" to the old lady, to quietly whisper to her that I was heartily glad to have met with a Union family; that I was reminded of home very much by the visit, and I would soon be home, too. She was so surprised at my manner that she wasn't able to answer.

What the Colonel got from the old man as a parting salute I don't know, only that it made him very cross and had the disagreeable effect of causing him to want to walk back to the train faster than I was able to keep up in my crippled condition.

We passed through Greenville, in East Tennessee, which was pointed out to us as the home of Senator Andy Johnson, of Tennessee. I should have liked to stop over here to have visited the residence and met some of the friends of Senator Johnson, who had been so much interested in my Southern experiences, but our train only remained a little while. We moved along slowly enough, stopping at what I thought must be every side-track on the road, to meet some trains that were due from the opposite direction, but which seemed never to come.

The burning of several of the bridges by Unionists, or those who were charged with being Unionists, had put the railroad people all out of their regular reckoning, causing this general delay of the trains.

By reason of my rather close official and personal relations with the Captain of our company, I was enabled by some quiet questioning to learn from him in advance of the rest of the boys that our destination was Knoxville, Tennessee, or, as he termed it in the military phrases that we learned to use so aptly, "Knoxville was to be our base of operations, but our objective point was probably Cumberland Gap, that being the nearest point of probable contact with the enemy."

I was very glad to learn that there was to be something that looked like a contact, because, now that I had left Richmond and Virginia, my entire purpose and aim was to get back home as quickly as possible, and they couldn't "advance on the enemy" any too quickly for me. In thus coming down to Tennessee to get to Washington, the old saying was realized in my case, that "The nearest way home often leads the farthest way round."

We reached Knoxville on a cold, cheerless day. A crowd of Yankee troops could not have met with a more chilling reception in any town in the South than was accorded to the Maryland Refugee's Rebel Battery--both by the people and the weather.

I had become rather accustomed, like the rest of the Maryland fellows, to expect complimentary observations on our self-sacrificing spirit, in exiling ourselves from our homes for the good of the Southern cause. We didn't get any of this sort of taffy in East Tennessee. I thought I was the only man in the crowd who felt like resenting this "outrageous treatment," as they all felt it to be; but, as will be seen hereafter, there were others besides myself in this battery of Maryland refugees who secretly enjoyed the discomfiture of our officers and men at the hands of the Tennessee Unionists.

To me it was most refreshing to meet with an outspoken Union man. Of course, they were--at this time--somewhat careful in their expressions of dissent to the Southern cause, but we all understood, in a general way, that those who were not outspoken in their sentiments for the South were opposed to secession and the war, and as the outspoken element was just then mighty scarce, the inference was that the majority was against us.

Quarters had been provided for our crowd in what must have been a deserted old mansion house, which was situated--as nearly as I can remember--on a road near the outskirts of the town. I think it was the Swan House. If the house is still there, I am sure I will find it when I go down there to revisit and renew some old but not forgotten friendships, and, perhaps, may be able to practice some amateur photography on it and some of the "scenes" which are related in this chapter, that I may supply some friendly reader hereafter.

On account of the accident up the road, which had bruised me up so that I was becoming quite lame and helpless, it was arranged that I should find a private house in which to live until I could sufficiently recuperate to stand the travel on horseback.

It is likely that I was indebted to my constant friend's (the Colonel) consideration for securing me comfortable quarters in the home of a refined family, who lived in that section of the town known, I think, as East Knoxville. The name was Craig. I am giving the correct names here, because I am desirous, even at this late date, of acknowledging an indebtedness to this family for their many kindnesses to me, as well, also, that I may explain to them and the other residents of that city some of my actions that, at the time, must have been bewildering in the light they then had. If they have thought of me at all since I was their guest in 1861, the lapse of twenty-five years has not served to further enlighten them, and will be, at least, a gratification to them as well as to myself.

Mr. Craig was an official at the County Court House, located in the other end of the town--I think either the Prothonotory or County Clerk.

He was rather an old gentleman at that time and is scarcely living now, but his family of accomplished daughters, who were then at home, if living, will no doubt recall their soldier guest of 1861.

Mine host was one of those old-fashioned gentlemen, who was able to entertain a visitor handsomely without asking questions; it was understood that he was or, at least, had been a Union man. On this important question, at that time, he was the most agreeably non-committal man in his own house of any person I have ever met. The wife and mother, like the father, was all attention and kindness to the needs of the poor soldiers, never stopping a moment to inquire whether they were of the North or the South.