You may imagine how eager I was for the opportunity to change the subject with the Captain, which seemed to present itself with my remark to him. He replied in what was intended to be rather a severe lecture on what he termed my "fast and loose" way of carrying things on. I took his medicine quite meekly, and talked back only in a tone of sorrow and humiliation, taking good care to get in all sorts of rash promises to do better service for Maryland and the Confederacy, if he would only give me a chance by allowing me to go to the front.

He was disposed to be skeptical, and I write down here Captain Latrobe's exact words, spoken to me that morning in answer to my earnest appeal to be permitted to join the company at the Gap:

"Well, Wilmore, you are no use here, and I don't believe you will be up there, but I'll see what I can do with you."

He turned to leave, directing that I should "hold on here a while," as he limped off toward General Ledbetter's headquarters. I felt sure that he had gone there to consult with his superior officer about some disposition of myself; and I strongly suspected that the hinted-at requisition for me from Richmond had come through the military channels.

Perhaps the reader may be able to imagine my thoughts and fears, or share my feelings for the few moments that I sat on the edge of the porch of the old log house that morning, waiting for the verdict, as it were. I rather incline to the belief though, that it is only those who have been under a sentence of death, or who are awaiting the result of a last appeal for a pardon, who will be competent to sympathize with me, or one who has been in such a plight.

I was a long way from home, all alone--in a strange, I might say, a foreign land--among enemies; at liberty, but really with a rope around my neck; a single misstep, or word, a chance recognition, was all that was needed to spring the trap, and my career was ended ingloriously right there.

I was filled, too, on this bright and beautiful morning with the bright hope and prospect of soon getting home; in fact, I was starting out homeward bound at this time; my reaching there depended in one sense upon the will of this Captain, who could have put me in arrest and confinement and, at least, have delayed my chances, or he could give me the orders, that would admit of my easy escape.

The moments seemed like hours until the Captain made his appearance at the log-cabin door, where he stood for a few moments talking to an officer on General Ledbetter's staff. I felt sure that I was the subject of their conversation, but like most persons who feel this way when their consciences trouble them, I was mistaken.

Coming up to me, the Captain said, in a cheerful tone, as compared with the first remark to me:

"Corporal, could you find the Gap, if we--" so eager and thankful was I, I abruptly interrupted him to say: "Oh yes, I can easily do that."

"Well, it's forty miles from here, over a most God-forsaken mountain path."

I replied that I was used to the mountains and would easily find the place.

"We want to send some papers up there for signatures. I am here at headquarters to-day to get our Muster Roll fixed up, and find that I have to send them back again. We were going to get a couple of the natives to do the traveling, but, if you think you can get there, we will get you a horse and start you off right away."

The Captain's companion, the staff officer, seemed to be satisfied with my ability to undertake the journey, while the Captain himself was rather pleased to see me show some enthusiasm, or a disposition to "do something," as he put it.

He didn't understand the motive at the time, but I reckon he appreciated the feeling a little later on.

So it was arranged, to my great delight, that I should start at once, as the roll of papers had been waiting for a chance messenger. The staff officer went to see some one in the rear about a horse. I was invited to follow them into the stable. A reliable old mountain climber was pointed out as the best thing for the trip. The details of the mount was left to the stable boss and myself.

He told me she was used as a pack horse, for the staff officers: admitted that she might be old, but insisted that the climber was reliable.

I wasn't very particular--anything for a horse, a kingdom, or two kingdoms, so it would "tote" me up the mountain. I would have saddled up right away, but the old farmer insisted on feeding, while we hunted around for a saddle and other tools. A bag was filled with oats, a haversack stuffed with one day's rations for me, and I was ready to charge on the Yankees. Indeed, the old nag was choked off on her feed, so eager was I to get away. I got aboard at the stable door, found the old saddle-stirrups a mile too long for my short legs, and while the old fellow adjusted them, he laughingly said:

"Why, you go on jist like a boy."

I was a boy, and I was going home; but I was old enough to prevent older heads from finding out just how old I was.

I rode around to the front, dismounted gayly, and reported to the Captain that I was ready. Then began another trouble. I received more "orders" and "directions" in the next half hour than my wild head could contain, which resulted in my going off at last without explicit directions as to the route I was to take.

The Captain gave me some letters for Lieutenant Elkton, who was in command of our detachment at the Gap, which he said I was to deliver personally. I assented cheerfully to all the instructions, but when I had gotten off some time, and had cooled down a little, and had time to reflect, I concluded that I had better not be in a hurry to deliver that letter to our commanding officer. I "preserved" it carefully, however, so that it will be made public here for the first time. In addition to the numerous specifications that may be charged against me, I added that of robbing the Confederate mail.

As I look back over this mountain path, as it appeared to me then and remains in my memory, I wonder how it is that I ever got through with the journey alone so easily and safely.

I am not going to attempt a description of the wonderful mountain scenery of East Tennessee. That has been done so well and so often that any who may read this will have seen the well-written accounts which appear in the magazines every now and then, or, perhaps, more elaborately done in numerous war stories, as well as in the later writings of Charles Egbert Craddock and Frances Hodgson Burnett.

Besides, every man of the Western armies has hoofed it over the same old road I traveled that day, carrying with him a goodly assortment of family groceries and "forty rounds," so that the impression on their minds will last as long as life remains, being as indelibly fixed as the everlasting hills themselves.

I can see nothing but the great mountains, on each side of an awfully rocky road, that seemed to me then to have been simply the dried-out beds of some streams that had refused to run to supply the Rebels with water. On every side of me, as I traveled along over these mountain roads, was the dense growth of interminable laurel thickets.

The country is, of course, somewhat diversified in mountain and plain, but the general impression left with me is, that it was so much more mountain than plain that there was hardly enough plain for a wagon-road.

After I had gotten some distance away, and was driving ahead as fast as the old horse would navigate over the rocky road, houses and farms began to grow smaller and beautifully less each mile. Every now and then we would plunge into a clearing, and find somewhere in a field of stumps a house--one of the small farmhouses where the roofs extend down and out over the front far enough to make a covering for a porch. On this porch one could almost always see some pumpkins rolled up in a corner, a saddle would be astride of the rough porch railing, a few dried provisions hung in the roof rafters overhead; one could always expect to find the lady of the house standing in the front door as he passed, and she was generally broad enough to fill the narrow space, so that only one or two heads would have room to peep out beside her, like young chickens under the old hen's wings. I generally hunted the well at almost every house we came to, when I took great cooling drinks of water from a gourd dipper.

These were the houses of the East Tennessee mountaineers. To describe one will answer for all. At the time of my travel among them, most of the men folks were away from home, either hiding among the rocks and gorges of the mountains from their persecutors, or, perhaps, having crossed the mountain, where they joined the Union Army, hoping soon to return to their homes as soldiers of the Government. There were six of these refugee Tennessee regiments as early as 1861-'62 in this part of the State, composed entirely of genuine, _bona fide_, Unionist refugees.

I would like to record a comparison here with the refugees from Maryland in the Confederate Army at this time, both as to number and character.

I had left headquarters so late in the day that it was too much for me to make the Gap the same night with that horse, over these roads. When I started out, though, I intended to do this or burst; but on toward evening, after several hours of rough riding, I began to find the road getting so blind, and the houses were becoming so scarce, that I feared getting lost in the mountain if night should overtake me beyond the settlement.

So, early in the evening, when I reached the ford or crossing of a stream, the name of which I cannot now recall, I pulled up in front of a large house--for that country--and asked for a night's shelter. My impression is that this was a sort of stopping place or the last relay house on the southern side of the Gap. I found accommodation for both man and beast, and enjoyed a pleasant evening with the two old people on their front porch. I took it for granted that they were Unionists, though they had little to say on that subject, but they both were so well pleased with my way of talking, and of the encouraging news for a Rebel soldier to bring, that I think the old woman exerted herself to make the biscuit extra light, as she put enough salaratus in them to color the whole batch of them with yellow spots.

I was put to sleep in an attic room, and very early the next morning I was awake and dressed for the last ride. The old man had taken good care of the old horse during the night, feeding her on fodder, I reckon. When I got out from breakfast I found her tied to a tree down by the water. I mounted gayly. The old fellow gave me explicit directions as to the road to the Gap, which, he said, was in sight from the top of the hills. I bade him "Good-by," promising to pay the bill on my return. I hadn't a cent of money--besides, it was customary for the soldiers to live off the Unionists--so the old man was not much disappointed at not getting a fee, but I shall feel as if I owe them a dollar with interest for twenty-five years.

I believe I rather rushed the old hoss for awhile that morning, because I was feeling so good over the prospect of getting away at last.

Sure enough, I could see the Gap through a break in the trees and brush from the next hill-top, as the old man had said. I was surprised because it was so close to me, and disappointed in its appearance, as I had expected, from all that I had heard and read of Cumberland Gap, to find a great gorge breaking abruptly through the mountains.

On the southern, or more strictly speaking, the eastern side of the approach to Cumberland Gap, the ascent up the mountain is so gradual that one is disappointed until the summit or highest point is reached, from which a view is to be had down into Kentucky. It is then, only, that the grand beauty of the historic old place is realized. As I rode closer I met signs of military occupation--there were a lot of horses down the road at a black-smith shop waiting to be shod--a couple of soldiers in gray had them in charge; further on was a farmhouse, on the porch of which two officers in loose uniforms were sitting smoking pipes. I forged ahead, without being stopped by anybody, or stopping of my own accord until I was almost up to the very entrance to the Gap itself, when I met with a careless sort of challenge, given by a soldier, or officer without arms. It was only necessary to offer my papers and explain my business, to be told to go ahead, with directions as to where I should find our Battery.

I found our fellows were in a camp--or cabins--some little distance inside of the real Gap; on that side there seems to be two gaps, or, more plainly speaking, it seemed to me from a distance as a double gap, neither of which seemed very deep; indeed, the top of the mountain peaks on each side of the road that curved around between the two highest points did not strike me then as deserving the great name and celebrity they had obtained.

When I found the Lieutenant and delivered my papers to him, I received from the boys something of that greeting which is always accorded to a visitor who brings a pay roll or any papers or mail. Lanyard was there, the sailor recruit from Norfolk, as was also my old Richmond friend, the Colonel; we three had some hearty hand-shaking and cordial greetings.

The Colonel, who was really the Sergeant, could not spare the time from some duty to accompany me, but Lanyard escorted me over to the real Gap, and it was there, as I stood on the crest of that great mountain top and looked down, down into the tree-tops of a great forest, far below and stretching away in the distance as far as I could see, that I realized what Cumberland Gap was. I could see threading along through the mass of trees that looked like mere bushes, so far down were they, a winding cord that resembled to my mind then a kite-string that had dropped down from above. This was the long, narrow and crooked road which led to the Union forces, which I knew were somewhere pretty close.

We were looking over into Kentucky and into the Union. I don't think I spoke much. I know that when such a scene is presented to me for the first time, I am struck dumb, as it were, and not able to rave over it, as I have so often heard others do, and have envied them.

To my first question, as to the location of the Yankees, Lanyard pointing to a clump of trees forming a little grove, seemingly isolated from the rest and a little to one side of the road, said:

"That's where they were in force when they made that attack on the Gap here."

Then we walked over to a stockade made of the trunks of saplings put on end in ditches, reaching up ten feet, behind which our Maryland boys were located. They had two guns then, and I was shown the marks of bullets of the Yankees, which were in the new wood of the stockade.

Those who were on guard had a good deal to say of these wonderful guns of the Yankees that could imbed such a large long ball so deeply in the hard wood of the stockade. Our Battery had actually enjoyed the glory of putting a couple dozen of shots over into Kentucky somewhere. The bold refugees from Ireland imagined that they had done some wonderful execution by these few shots, but, upon investigation a few days later, I found that our troops were so close to the guns at the time, that the shots passed not only over them, but landed a long distance beyond, where they probably fell among the tree-tops and only scared the owls.

If this attack of our troops had been made after my report of the weak condition of the defenses of the Rebels, it might have resulted in an early capture of Cumberland Gap.

I lingered a long time in the Gap, at such points as admitted of my seeing out into Kentucky. I kept my eager longing eyes strained over that vista, hoping I might see the Stars and Stripes floating defiantly above the tree-tops. So eager was I to learn about the land of hope and of home, that lay stretched out before me, that I quickly gathered from these soldiers who were about me all the information they had about the land that lay beyond. My curiosity was pardonable at the time, because they supposed I was green and had never seen the Yankee country before.

They were also quite anxious to tell all they knew, and more too. I gathered enough information in a very short time to satisfy me, first, that there were no Rebel pickets stationed beyond the Gap, though some predatory horsemen belonging to the artillery, and mounted on anything they could get, were in the habit of scouting out the roads occasionally for forage; secondly, the Yankees were in force within a few miles of me. I was told that their Cavalry frequently came almost to the foot of the mountain below.

This was enough. I should not allow another sun to set or rise on me before I had put myself under the protection of the old flag. I sat alone on a log, on the side of the hill, for a long time. I recalled that awfully hot July day that my companion and myself had sat out together on a log in like manner on a hill-side, very like this one, at Harper's Ferry, that other great hole in the mountains near my home, and how we both escaped inside the lines in the evening. My experiences in the Rebel lines during the months that followed passed before me rapidly. I was willing to risk a good deal to get away without the formality of a "Good-by" to the boys whom I had just met and left at the camp a little to the rear. I remarked to the sentry who was on guard nearest me:

"Is there any danger of being caught if I go down the hill to that house (pointing to one right below); I want to get something good to eat."

"Oh, no," he said, "our fellows go down there all the time."

He was a very obliging sentry. If he had orders at all, they were probably to allow no one to pass in; so, with a heart throbbing with suppressed excitement, I looked around. It was close on to evening, about supper time in the Rebel camps. Lanyard had returned to the performance of some duty. No one was near except the good-natured sentry. I leisurely stepped beyond "bounds," and, with a parting injunction to the soldier not to shoot when he saw me coming up, I stepped off down grade at a lively gait, and was soon winding down the horse-shoe curved road, which led me either to home or heaven, liberty or death.

Before reaching the foot of the winding road, that led on past the little house standing some distance below, I stopped a moment--only a moment--to plan. In those days my mind was soon made up, and, once I had decided a matter, I was always prepared to act upon it the same moment.

I concluded not to go to the house--that I must avoid leaving any trail by which I might be traced. To accomplish this, it was necessary that I leave the road and clamber up the steep side-hill embankment, which was full of brush and thickets; by so doing it would lead me into a wood to the side of the house.