[Illustration: CAPT. R. A. RAGAN IN 1863.]




  ESCAPE

  FROM

  EAST TENNESSEE

  TO

  THE FEDERAL LINES.


  THE HISTORY, GIVEN AS NEARLY AS POSSIBLE, BY CAPTAIN R. A. RAGAN
  OF HIS INDIVIDUAL EXPERIENCES DURING THE WAR OF THE
  REBELLION FROM 1861 TO 1864.


  ILLUSTRATED.


  WASHINGTON, D. C.
  JAMES H. DONY, PUBLISHER.
  1910.




  Copyright 1910, by
  R. A. RAGAN.




INTRODUCTION.


I lay no claim to literary attainments, but undertake to tell in
simple words the story of my experiences, hardships and sufferings,
lying out in the cold weather many nights, trying to make my way
across the mountains and rivers to Kentucky, where the Union Army was
encamped.

There have been a number of books written since the Civil War,
dealing with the loyalty, heroism and suffering of the Union people
of East Tennessee during that period, but few men have given their
individual experience from 1861 to 1864.

I am, so far as I can ascertain, the only East Tennessee pilot
living. I give the following names of those who piloted Union men
through the lines: Daniel Ellis, James Lane, A. C. Fondren, James
Kinser and David Fry. These men have all died since the War, except
James Lane, who was killed at the foot of the Cumberland Mountain, in
Powell’s Valley, while conveying men to Kentucky.

  R. A. R.




ESCAPE FROM EAST TENNESSEE




CHAPTER I.


I was born in Greene County, Tennessee, near the banks of the Nola
Chucky River. My father moved in 1845 to the banks of the French
Broad River, in Cocke County, Tennessee, shortly after I was born.
I was the oldest of the six children, namely, myself, Alexander,
Laura, Creed, Mary and James Ragan. My father was a county officer
for years—in fact, until the late war. I grew up in the county, and
attended muster.

In 1860 I was elected Lieutenant-Colonel of the Militia, and in the
Fall of 1861 was in the employ of Frank Clark, who fattened hogs and
every year drove them to South Carolina markets. At that time there
were no railroads in East Tennessee leading to South Carolina. When
we left East Tennessee there was no talk of war, but when we reached
South Carolina, the people were excited and in a state of rebellion.
Before reaching Spartanburg, Mr. Clark told me to be careful how I
talked. He seemed to know the situation.

After we arrived at Spartanburg I was sick with jaundice for a few
days, and confined to my bed. While in bed I could hear the rebels
hallooing and riding through the streets, and the rattling of sabers.

In a few days I got out of my bed and went out into the streets. I
was young, and hardly knew what it meant, for everything was calm
when I left East Tennessee; but when I looked up and saw the rebel
flag, I felt a thrill of patriotism run through my veins, and then
began to realize the fact that it was not the flag I had been used to
all my life. At that moment I was a Union boy, and felt that I was in
the wrong latitude.

If I had uttered a word against the South at that time I would have
been hung to the first limb. The Negroes were excited and scared
nearly to death. Some one would set a house on fire and accuse a
Negro of the crime, and arrest the first one he came across, taking
him out and hanging him. I saw two hung in this manner.

The next morning I said quietly to Mr. Clark, “I believe I will go
back to East Tennessee.”

“All right,” he said.

I had, I think, the best saddle horse in the State; he was a fox
trotter, only three years old, and his gait was smooth and easy. I
bid Mr. Clark good-day, and started on my journey.

The farther I got from Spartanburg, the better I felt. I believe I
rode sixty-two miles from early in the morning until dark. It seemed
to me that the horse was a Union animal, for he “pulled for the
shore.” I never put a spur or whip to his flesh. I was young, and
will confess I was afraid the rebels were after me.

When I reached the top of the Blue Ridge, I looked back and it seemed
to me that I could see the smoke of war. I then turned my face toward
East Tennessee, and imagined I could see peace and harmony. I looked
to my right and could see the Holston and Watauga Rivers running down
through the valleys of East Tennessee, and the people going about
their daily avocations; and next was the Nola Chucky, where I was
born, with her beautiful bottom lands extending for miles. Next came
the French Broad, on the banks of which I was raised. Next was the
Big Pigeon, which was made from the little streams gushing from the
Great Smoky Mountain and the North Carolina Mountains. I imagined
I could see all these rivers making their way in peace to the
Tennessee River, which emptied into the Ohio above its junction with
the great Mississippi. I did not think at that time that there were
preparations being made by the North and the South for the greatest
war that was ever fought in the world.

After I had rested on the top of this mountain, I continued my
journey down through a part of North Carolina to Paint Rock, and
then into East Tennessee. When I arrived at Newport, Cocke County, I
found the people making preparations to sow wheat. I remember on my
way from South Carolina I came to a farm on the banks of the French
Broad. The men were plowing, some with mules, some with horses and
others with yokes of oxen, turning over the land. They knew me, and
asked how I had come out with my hogs, and how the times were over in
South Carolina.

I said, “H— is to pay over there; they are fixing for war.”

They asked me who they were going to fight.

“The Yankees,” I said.

I told them that Fort Sumter had been fired upon. They asked me where
Fort Sumter was. You see that the people in that locality had never
heard of war, but in a short time they began talking about secession.




CHAPTER II.


In February, 1861, the State of Tennessee voted against secession
by the overwhelming majority of 68,000; but a military league,
offensive and defensive, was entered into on the seventh day of May,
1861, between commissioners appointed by Governor Harris, on the
part of the State of Tennessee, and commissioners appointed by the
Confederate government, and ratified by the General Assembly of the
State, whereby the State became a part of the Confederate States
to all intents and purposes, although an act was passed on the 8th
of June for the people to decide the question of separation and
representation or no representation in the Confederate Congress.

In the meantime, troops had been organized and made preparations for
war. The election was a farce, as the State had already been taken
out of the Union and had formed an alliance with the other States of
the Confederacy.

The leaders of the Union element, comprising the best talent of East
Tennessee, had not been idle. The most prominent Union leaders at
that time were Andrew Johnson, Thomas A. R. Nelson, W. B. Carter, C.
F. Trigg, N. G. Taylor, Oliver P. Temple, R. R. Butler, William G.
Brownlow, John Baxter and Andrew J. Fletcher. These men, with all
their eloquence and ability, failed to accomplish the task of holding
Tennessee in the Union.

The State commenced organizing troops, and as Lieutenant-Colonel of
the Militia I was urged by the leading rebels of my county to make up
a regiment for the rebel army. I refused to do so, and from that time
on I was considered a Union man.

I was appointed by the School Board to teach school. When the
Legislature met a law was passed exempting certain persons, such
as school teachers, blacksmiths and millers from the Confederate
service. Of course I came under the law and was exempt, and I wanted
to keep out of the rebel army. I had just married and did not want
to go North and leave my family until I was compelled to go. At that
time very few men had left the State for the North.

In a short time the exemption law was repealed, and every man from
eighteen to forty-five years of age had to join the rebel army or be
conscripted. I was teaching school, but did not know of the repeal
of the law; so in a day or two the rebel soldiers came to the school
house and arrested me, and took me by way of my home, which was about
two miles from the school house, in order that I might see my wife,
as I requested.

When we reached my home my wife came to the door, and did not display
any excitement. She was a brave Union woman, and knew that they
had a hard customer, and that I would never fight for the Southern
Confederacy. I wanted to have a private conversation with my wife,
but they refused. I did not know when I would return, for they were
killing men by hanging or shooting them every day, and taking others
to Tuscaloosa. I just told my wife to go to her father and remain
with him until I returned.

I will here relate a little incident that occurred while under
arrest that evening, showing the way the rebels treated Union men.
My brother-in-law was a rebel, but a nice man personally. He lived
on a farm of about one hundred acres, adjoining the farm I lived on,
and I can safely say that there was a cross-fence every two hundred
yards through his farm, and no bars or gates to go through. I was on
foot, and the rebel soldiers put me in front to lay down all these
fences for them to pass through, and made me put them up afterward.
Of course I obeyed orders, for every man was armed and wanted me to
do something that they might have an excuse to shoot me.

When we passed out of the field into the woodland, we had to go
through a deep hollow. When we reached the place, it was dark,
although in the daytime. About the time we reached the middle of the
hollow one of the soldiers, in a low voice, said to another, “Dave,
this is a good place!” I listened, expecting to hear the command,
“Halt!” but no reply was made to the remark. No one can imagine how
I felt. I had just left my wife standing in the door of our little
log cabin, watching the soldiers driving me through the field, taking
down and putting up all the fences, as heretofore stated; I thought
of my mother and my sisters, whom I should probably never see again.
This was all in about a minute of time, but it was a terrible minute
for me. However, the soldiers continued to drive me along until we
came in the evening to the home of Henry Kilgore, the conscript
officer, which was about two miles from our home. He took my name,
and registered it on the conscript rolls. I was then considered a
rebel soldier.

It was dark when we arrived at his house, and we had to remain until
morning. There was a bed in the corner of the cabin, and I believe
some beds on the second floor. The kitchen was about ten yards from
the log cabin. They gave me my supper, but I had little appetite. I
had known the conscript officer all my life, but he did not recognize
me, and I will speak of him further on.

About eight o’clock I found they were going to have a “hoe-down”
that night, and the men and women of the neighborhood were invited
to come. They began to arrive about nine o’clock. I pretended to be
sleepy, and an officer who was guarding me ordered me to get into the
bed in the corner of the cabin. Of course I was under orders, and I
crawled in—but no sleep for me.

They had a man with a violin, and commenced dancing, four at a
time, face to face—a general hoe-down. They kept their drinks in
the kitchen, which they visited often. They began to get tired and
commenced singing

    “I want some more of your weevilly wheat,
     I want some more of your barley.”

They danced and enjoyed themselves by running around in the house
after each other, and the women would jump on my bed and trample over
me. I thought at times I would be trampled to death, but I was pretty
hard to hurt at that time and I was mad to the core.




CHAPTER III.


Next day the soldiers got together and detailed three men to take
me to Knoxville, Tenn. When we arrived there, about two o’clock in
the morning, they took me out—I cannot tell where—and put me in the
stockade with about three hundred poor ragged men who had declared
themselves for the Union. When I went in, they raised a howl,

“There is another Lincolnite!”

I never saw such a sight in all my life. These men were half naked
and barefooted, and some without hats. They had lost their apparel
in the woods, trying to make their escape. I do not think they had
washed their faces or hands since being captured.

In the morning a wagon drove up to the stockade, on the outside, and
the driver commenced throwing old, poor beef over the stockade on the
ground. I shall never forget seeing one of the men pick up a piece of
beef and throw it against the wall to see if it would stick, but it
was too poor. I never expected to eat or bite of it, and I never did.

My father, who was a cousin of John H. Reagan, Postmaster General of
the Southern Confederacy, was on hand at Knoxville about the time I
arrived. He telegraphed to Richmond that his son was under arrest,
that he had committed no crime, and that he was a school teacher. The
Richmond authorities telegraphed back to Leadbeater, the commanding
officer, directing him to release me. The next morning I passed out
of the stockade and went back to my home, and commenced teaching
school again.

In a few days word was sent to me that I was to be again arrested. I
then disappeared, and for about eighteen months my whereabouts were
only known by my family and the families of my wife, father, and an
old uncle. All this time I was trying to get across to the Federal
lines, but something happened to prevent my getting away. They were
scouring the country for conscripts, and already had my name on the
rolls, as I have heretofore stated.

Sometime about the first of 1862 I heard that a pilot was to be in
Greene County, Tenn., to take Union men to the Federal lines. One
Joseph Smith, who lived near my town, Parrottsville, went with me to
Greene County, about twelve miles from our home, to the banks of the
Nola Chucky River, and we remained there for a few days, lying in a
straw stack and fed by an old Union lady, by the name of Minerva Hale.

News came that a “pilot” would be on hand about one mile from where
we were. I do not know why, but something told me not to go. Joseph
Smith left me, bidding me good-bye, and I never saw him again.

I started back home, twelve miles through the woods, and had to cross
the Nola Chucky in the dark, and the rebels travelling all through
the country, knowing that men were trying to cross to Kentucky. I
reached home before daylight and let my wife know I had returned,
then went out in the woods as usual and put up.

The next day news came to the neighborhood that the men Joseph Smith
met were captured the night he left me, only three men making their
escape—the pilot (William Worthington) and two others. They saved
themselves by jumping into Lick Creek, a small but deep stream, and
sinking themselves in the water, only allowing their faces above the
water enough to breathe.

The rest of the men were taken to Vicksburg and put in the rebel
army. Joseph Smith was shot in the foot while at Vicksburg, and
gangrene set in, causing his death. The other men were never
subsequently heard of.

I never slept in a house but three or four times during the time I
was scouting. I travelled between what is called Neddys Mountain and
Newport, Tenn., which is about twelve miles. I never travelled in a
road, and always in the night.

I had an old uncle who lived in Newport, between the French Broad
River and the Pigeon River, which were about four miles apart.
I wanted to see him, and started out one night. It was dark and
raining, but I always felt safer the harder it rained and the darker
the night. I came to the French Broad, a good sized river. Of course
I knew that I could not cross at the ferry, for I had heard that it
was guarded by rebel soldiers. I had been raised in that section from
a boy and was familiar with the river and the surrounding country.
About two hundred yards below the ferry I crossed the river, wading
part of the way and swimming the balance, with my clothes in a bundle
on my head.

When I got over I went in the bushes and dressed. I had to be very
careful, for the town was full of rebel scouts, but no regular
regiment was stationed there.

I went on the north side of the town, and down a little alley to the
back of my uncle’s house, and knocked at the kitchen door. Directly
my cousin, Sarah Ragan, came to the door, and was dumbfounded to see
me. She said, “Why, Cousin Bob, the town is full of rebel soldiers,
and two are now in the parlor!”

She took me upstairs, and I remained there two days and nights. I
could look out in the street and see the rebel soldiers going up and
down. Of course they thought I was in the Northern Army, and nearly
all the Union people thought the same.

I left the third night and went to my father’s, on the main road
leading from Newport to Greeneville, Tenn., about three miles from
Newport. This was a dangerous place for me to stop, but I wanted to
see my mother and sister, and I always found such places about as
safe for me as any, as the rebels never thought of me or any other
Union man being in such places.

I remained there for a few days. The second day, about two o’clock,
word came that a regiment of rebel soldiers were crossing the French
Broad at Newport, the place I had left a few nights before. I was at
a loss to know what to do.

A rebel family lived just a few hundred yards away, on the main road,
and there was not a tree or bush to hide me. I knew the soldiers
would stop at the house and probably search the building for Union
men. I had but a few minutes to decide.

My mother was on hand and always ready to offer suggestions in time
of danger. She said, “Bob, put on Laura’s dress and sun-bonnet, and
cross the road.”

[Illustration: CAPT. R. A. RAGAN MAKING HIS ESCAPE FROM THE FATHER’S
HOME IN 1862. See page 15.]

My sister was well grown for her age, and in a few minutes I had the
dress and bonnet on. The dress reached just below my knees, but I
crossed the road and passed the barn into an old field about three
hundred yards away. I fell into a washout, and stuck my head out and
saw the rebel regiment pass. Some of them stopped at the house.

This was the first rebel regiment I had seen, and of course it was
a sight to me, and I felt more anxious to get to the Federal army.
This regiment of rebel soldiers was on its way to Johnson, Carter
and Cocke Counties, to look out for Union men making their way to
Kentucky or to the Federal army.

I went back to the house after dark, and left that night for Neddys
Mountain, in the neighborhood of my home, and remained there some
time, visiting my home at nights, but never sleeping in the house.

I will here relate a little incident that occurred while on a visit
to my father’s home, at the same place where I made my escape with
the dress on. I was in the sitting room, talking to my mother, when
some one knocked at the door, Of course we did not know who it was,
so I got under an old-fashioned bed, with curtains to the floor. Our
visitor was a lady who lived just below on the road, who was a strong
rebel sympathizer, and had two brothers in the rebel army. She had
come to spend the evening, and brought her knitting, as was the usual
custom in that neighborhood. As she was busy talking to my mother,
her ball of yarn rolled out of her lap and under the bed. As quick as
lightning, mother ran and got the ball, by my kicking it back. In a
few minutes she invited her visitor into another room.

At another time the same lady came while I was there, and she had a
big bull dog with her. I heard that she was on the porch, and I went
under the bed again. The dog came into the room and scented me. He
stuck his head under the curtains, and I kicked him on the nose, and
he went out yelping. The woman did not understand what it meant, but
said nothing. I left that night, and never visited my father again
during the war.




CHAPTER IV.


I remained around home and in the mountains, waiting for news to
come for us to start for Kentucky. In a few tidings came that a
“pilot” would start for the North about the first of May. Notice
was given and preparations were made to meet on the north side of
the Nola Chucky, in Greene Co., Tenn. I was to meet some men at a
school house, about one mile from home. It was a dangerous time, as
the rebels were scouting all over the country for Union men. That
day, about three miles away, two Union men, Chris. Ottinger and John
Eisenhour, were killed by the rebels.

On the 6th of May, 1863, I was at my father-in-law’s house, preparing
to meet the party at the school house heretofore mentioned. About
sun-down, my father-in-law went to the door on the north side of the
house and, turning around, said,

“The rebels are coming up the lane to the house!”

He went out toward the barn, calling the horses, trying to draw the
attention of the rebels, and knowing that I would try to get away.
I was barefooted, bareheaded, and without a coat. I ran out of the
house on the south side, and kept the house between myself and the
rebels. I jumped over a high fence and passed the loom house, then
jumped another high fence and lit on a lime-stone rock, cutting the
ball of my left foot to the bone, but did not know it until I ran up
close to the barn and sat down in a briar thicket in a corner of
the fence. I felt something sting, and putting my hand down, found
the blood gushing from my foot. The reader can imagine how I felt. I
was mad and ready to fight the entire Confederacy, but sat quietly,
nursing my wrath and my wounded foot.

By this time it was quite dark, and the rebels had fed their horses
and were going to the house for their supper which they had ordered.
I got up and studied for a moment to know what to do, and finally
decided to go back to the house the way I had ran out. I started
back, and crawled along the side of a hedge fence on the south side
of the house until I came to a gate that opened from the kitchen.
There was a bright light shining through the window, and I could see
all of the rebels seated at the table, there being about twenty of
them.

Outside it was very dark by this time. I crawled along on all fours
to the “big house” door and went in. The rebels had stacked their
arms in the sitting room, and all of their accoutrements were lying
on the floor. As there was no light in this room, it was very dark.
A stairway led from this room to the second floor, and I knocked
lightly on the stair railing. My sister-in-law came in and was
shocked to find me in the house. I told her I had ruined my foot on
a rock, and that I would go round on the north side of the house to
the kitchen door, and that she should tell my wife to come out, as I
wanted to speak to her; but my sister-in-law could find no chance to
do so, for the rebels were watching the family.

I stood at the door a minute, and tapped lightly, just so my wife
would hear it, for I could see through the window that she was
standing at the door. She opened it just a little, and I whispered to
her and said I would go out into the garden and remain there until
the rebels left.

While in the room I was tempted to take up their guns and go to the
window and shoot three or four of them, but I knew if I did they
would kill the family and burn the house.

I remained in the garden until they left, but suffered fearfully with
my wounded foot. I knew I had to meet the men at the school house.
After the rebels departed, I went in and cut off the top of my shoe
and washed the blood from my foot and bound it up the best I could.
The family filled my haversack with provisions and I started for the
school house, where I met the boys and related my troubles to them.

Men from all parts were making their way to the place on the north
side of the Nola Chucky, some seven miles from home. We had to cross
a cedar bluff on the north side of the river, and the night was dark
and the country very rough.

As a man by the name of Alfred Timons was crossing the road alone,
making his way to the place, he was fired upon by the rebels and
shot through the head, the ball coming out through his right eye. He
fell to the ground, but regained his strength and made his escape to
the river, which he crossed and came to the camp. The boys dressed
his wound the best they could, and he went to Kentucky, but lost the
sight of his eye.

I suffered all night with my foot, and could hardly put it to the
ground. There were about one hundred and twenty men gathered there
from all parts of the country, to go to Kentucky. We remained there
that night and until about eight o’clock the next evening, when they
started for that State.

I had to abandon the attempt to go this time, and was left alone on
the bluff in a terrible condition—no one to help me back home, and
if I should succeed in reaching home I could not stay in the house.
I knew if I was captured I would be shot or hung to the first limb.
The rebels had received word that we had crossed the river and were
making our way to Kentucky.

I started for home that night, crossing the river in a canoe at the
same place where I had crossed the night before. I travelled about
three miles that night, and just before daylight I crawled into a
barn, dug a hole in the hay, and remained there all day, suffering
intensely with my foot. Some one came into the barn to feed the
horses, but I knew who lived there, and did not dare to make my
presence known. When the person came in the hay loft I was afraid
whoever it was might stick the pitch fork in me. I could not tell
whether it was a man or woman, for no word was spoken. I lay there
all day, without anything to eat or drink, and suffering fearfully
with my foot.

About eight o’clock that night I crawled out of the barn and started
for home. I travelled about three miles, and before daylight I
crawled into another barn. I had known the owner all my life. He was
a German and a good Union man, but I could not let myself be known.
No one came to the barn that morning, and I lay there all day. My
foot had swollen so badly that my shoe had to be taken off, and I had
to go barefooted.

[Illustration: CAPT. R. A. RAGAN MAKING HIS ESCAPE FROM HIS
FATHER-IN-LAW’S HOME IN 1862. See page 17.]

The third night I crawled into the barn of Philip Easterly, who was
my wife’s uncle. I did not let myself be known, but lay there all day
as usual, and at night crawled out, having one mile and a half to
travel to reach home.

I can safely say that I had to hop on one foot most of the way. I had
no crutches and nothing but a stick that I had cut with a knife. When
I arrived at my home, about three o’clock in the morning, my folks
were surprised to see me, for they thought I could never walk on my
foot in the condition it was in. I had my foot dressed for the first
time since I was hurt. The blood had caked on it, and it looked as if
amputation might be necessary; but my wife came to me two or three
times a day and dressed it. I stayed in the barn at nights, and in
the woods in the daytime. I had to remain in this condition for about
six weeks, until I got so that I could begin to walk.




CHAPTER V.


In July, 1863, the news came that George Kirk would meet some men in
Greene County to take them to Kentucky. I was determined to go, if
I had to crawl part of the way. We met in Greene County, with about
a hundred men. We crossed Walden Ridge and the Watauga, Cumberland,
Holston and Powell’s Rivers, encountering great hardships. Our
provisions gave out, and the only way we could get anything to eat
was to find a colored family. They were always loyal, and we could
depend on them. They never would “give us away.”

When we reached Camp Dick Robinson, Kentucky, we found a great many
East Tennessee men who had made their way through the mountains. Some
had organized into companies.

Col. Felix A. Reeve, who is now Assistant Solicitor of the Treasury
Department, was organizing the Eighth Tennessee Regiment of Infantry.
I reported to him that there were a great many Union men in North
Carolina and Cocke County, Tenn., that wanted to come to the Union
army, and if he would give me recruiting papers I would attempt to
cross the Cumberland Mountain into East Tennessee, and make up a
company and bring them back with me. He was very anxious for me to
try it, but said it was a very dangerous undertaking, for the rebel
soldiers were guarding every road and path that had been traveled by
the Union men. I concluded, however, to make the venture.

With my brother Alexander Ragan, Iranious Isenhour, James Kinser
and James Ward, I started for East Tennessee. We crossed Cumberland
Mountain, and it commenced raining, and when in the night we came to
Powell’s River it was overflowing its banks. We had crossed at this
place on our journey to Kentucky. The canoe was on the opposite side,
and the night was so dark that we could not see across the stream.
We knew that if we remained there until daylight we certainly would
be captured and hung or shot. My brother and Eisenhour were good
swimmers. They stripped off their clothes, and I never expected to
see either of them again. I remember that my brother, while we were
talking about who should swim over to get the canoe, said to me,

“I am not married, and if I get drowned it will not be so bad; if you
were to get drowned, Emeline would be left alone.”

I have since thought thousands of times how noble it was in him
to have such fraternal feeling for myself and my wife under
circumstances of so trying a nature.

They both plunged in at the same time. The timber was running and
slashing the banks on the other side. I held my breath, waiting to
hear the result. In a few minutes I heard my brother say, “Here
it is, Iranius.” So they brought the canoe over, and one by one
we crossed to the other side. It was a frail little thing, and we
thought every minute we would be drowned. We crawled up the steep
bank to an old field, and as by this time it was daylight, we had to
get into the woods and hide for the day. We had filled our haversacks
with provisions when we left Camp Dick Robinson, but they were all
wet and mixed up; yet we ate them all the same.

James Ward could not see a wink in the night. We did not know it
until we had passed Cumberland Mountain. Of course we had to take
care of him. He was like a moon-eyed horse; he was all right in the
daytime, but we had to travel in the night, and we had to lead him
half the time.

After a good many hardships, we reached Cocke County, Tenn. I do not
think we met any one but an old man named Walker, whom I will mention
later on. He gave us something to eat—in fact all he had, for the
rebel soldiers had robbed him and left him destitute.

I went to my home in the night and made myself known, but did not
sleep in the house.

While I was away, the rebels came to my father-in-law’s house and
took him out to an old blacksmith shop and told him if he did not
give up his money they would hang him. He would not tell them where
the money was, and they put the rope around his neck and threw it
over the joist of the blacksmith shop, and pulled him up by the neck.
His daughter came and agreed to tell them where the money was, and
they let the old man down, but he was so near dead that he could not
stand. They took the money, some gold and some silver, and passed on.
My father-in-law was Benjamin F. Neass, an unconditional Union man.
These things I relate to show how Union men and families were treated.

In the meantime I sent for my father at Newport, whom I had not seen
for a year, and told the messenger not to let him know who wanted to
see him, but to meet me in a piece of woodland in a certain place on
my father-in-law’s farm. The next night he came. I asked him to send
word to North Carolina, and every place where he could find out that
there were Union men who wanted to go to Kentucky, but not to let a
man know who was the “pilot.” He was Deputy Sheriff of the county,
and was exempt from going into the rebel army at that time, but later
on he had to leave the country.

In a few days word reached North Carolina and Greene and Cocke
Counties, Tenn., that a “pilot” would be on hand at a place in the
woods on my father-in-law’s farm at a certain date. On the appointed
day, one, two and three at a time, they made their appearance. I did
not make myself known, but had a man ready to meet them and keep them
quiet, for the rebels were all through the country. I knew if they
captured me it would be certain death, for they killed every “pilot”
they could lay their hands on.

The Union women had been notified when we were to meet, and they had
made haversacks and filled them with provisions for their husbands.
The mothers and sisters had done the same thing for their sons and
brothers who were single.

When the time came at nine o’clock for us to start, I came out and
made myself known. There were about a hundred men present, and I had
been acquainted with nearly all of them. They were surprised and glad
to see me, and I swore in all who wanted to enlist. It was a sad
sight. The wives bid their husbands good-bye, net knowing whether
they would ever see them again or not, and some of them never did;
but they were loyal women and were ready at all times to sacrifice
all for their country.

Women in North Carolina and some parts of East Tennessee suffered
themselves to be whipped, and everything taken from them, and yet
they would not tell where their husbands were. I have known them
to cut up the last blanket in the house, to make clothes for their
husbands, who were lying out, waiting for a chance to reach the
Federal army. The night I left, my wife had cut up a blanket and made
for me a shirt and a pair of drawers. All these things go to show
what the Union men and women of East Tennessee did to help save this
Government when it was in danger of destruction.

We then started on the perilous undertaking, which was more dangerous
at that time than upon the previous trip to Kentucky, for men all
over East Tennessee had to leave, and the roads and river were
guarded. Nearly all the men had old rifles or shotguns that they had
rubbed up until they looked like army rifles. We reached the Nola
Chucky, about twelve miles from our starting point, about midnight in
a violent thunder storm, in the darkest night I had ever witnessed.
As the lightning flashed we could see it run along the barrels of the
guns. The river was very high, and there seemed to be a general war
of the elements.

Each man had been instructed before we started to not speak above his
breath, and if possible not to break a stick under foot. We halted
in the lane in front of the house occupied by the man who kept the
ferry, who was a Union man. His name was Reuben Easterly, six feet
and two inches in height. I went to the door and knocked; he was slow
to get up, but in a few moments came and opened the door.

[Illustration: CAPT. R. A. RAGAN ARRESTED AT THE SCHOOL HOUSE. See
page 8.]

I said in a low tone of voice, “One hundred and twenty Union men want
to cross the river.”

He hesitated and said, “The river is up, and I am afraid you can’t
cross.”

I said to him, “We have to cross, dead or alive. If we remain on this
side until daylight, we will be captured and sent to Tuscaloosa.”

He finally agreed to try, as he was always ready to help Union men.
He came out and about half of the men got into the flat-bottomed
boat and ran up the river a hundred yards to get a start so as to
reach the landing on the other side. We waited some time, and heard
the old boat strike dirt on the safe side. In about half an hour the
boat returned to our side, and the balance of us got in and were soon
safely landed with the others. We asked old Reuben what he charged.

“Nothing,” said he, “and I wish you a safe journey to the promised
land.”

Those kind words served to cheer us very much on our way.

After crossing the river we started for the Chucky Knobs, where we
were to meet several Union men. When we reached the place, in a deep
hollow, with no house within a mile, we found fifteen men waiting
for us, including Judge Randolph, of Cocke County. A number of Union
women had learned that we were to meet at this place, and that
their husbands were going away, and they had prepared rations and
haversacks to supply them on their dangerous journey. They bid them
good-bye, and two of them never saw their husbands again.

We remained there all that day, and that night at eight o’clock we
started for good, with about one hundred and thirty men. All seemed
to be in good spirits and glad that they were on their way to the
“promised land,” as Reuben Easterly said when we crossed the Nola
Chucky. We travelled about fifteen miles that night, and next day
laid in the woods on the banks of the Watauga River.

When night came we crossed the river—some swimming and some crossing
in an old canoe—and continued our journey. At daylight we came to the
Holston River, at a point where no Union men had previously crossed
on their way to Kentucky. I sent three men up the river to find a
canoe, for some of the men could not swim and it was too deep to
wade. They found an old canoe, and while some swam and others crossed
in the canoe, it was nearly midnight when we all got across.

As the men reached the opposite side, they would lie down and go to
sleep while the others were crossing. It was a level place on the
opposite side, and stick weeds had grown up about five feet high.
When the men had all crossed, they woke up those that were asleep,
and we got in line and started. After travelling about half a mile,
we heard some one howling at the top of his voice. I sent two of
the boys back in haste to find out what was the matter. They found
that Jimmie Jones was left asleep on the bank of the river, the boys
having failed to awaken him. He said that he dreamed that the rebels
were after him and he woke up and found we had gone, and the old man
commenced howling like a lost dog. We were very uneasy about it, for
fear the rebels had heard him, but evidently they had not and no
unpleasant consequences resulted.

Next came Bays and Clinch Mountains, steep and rugged, over which
we had to pass; and then came Clinch River, another dangerous place
to cross, for the rebels were watching the paths and the rivers to
prevent Union men from leaving the country and reaching the Federal
lines.

We crossed Powell’s Mountain, tall, rough and rugged; then came
Walden Ridge and the Wild Cat Mountain. The nights were so dark we
could not see ten feet ahead of us. As we passed through these dark,
narrow paths, we marched in single file, myself leading; the next
one would take hold of my coat tail, and so on down the line. No
man was allowed to speak above his breath. Sometimes men would fall
and suffer themselves to be dragged for yards, but never spoke nor
murmured a word.

We had some rations on hand that our wives had prepared for us, but
they were getting scarce, from the fact that we had to keep away from
houses and public roads. It was certainly strange that one hundred
and thirty men could travel through a country two hundred miles,
thickly settled in some places, and never be seen.

We continued on our march, the night being very dark and the country
very rough. The men had become tired and worn out. Some were nearly
barefooted, for their shoes were poor before they left home.

The next morning we came in sight of Powell’s River, and remained in
a thick piece of woods for the day. We were in a dangerous part of
the country—we were nearing Powell’s Valley, the most dangerous place
in all our travels. When night came we were a little refreshed, but
were out of rations, and had been living on quarter rations all the
way. We crossed Powell’s River that night, and started for the great
task. We had to cross the “Dead Line” and Powell’s Valley the next
night.

It was so dark we could not see ten steps ahead of us, and we lost
our trail. When daylight came we found ourselves about two miles
East of the regular trail. We halted in a deep hollow and had a
consultation. I knew that I was “in for it,” if I failed to get them
out. I was sure we were East of the home of old man Walker, the man
who gave us something to eat on our way to Tennessee on our previous
trip, and I thought I could find his house. I started West, and
travelled two miles through the woods, in a rough country, with no
houses near. It so happened that I came out of the woods at the rear
of his house. I lay down in a patch of chinkapin bushes for some
time, as I was not certain that I was at the right place, the house
being a very ordinary log building.

I crawled to a low rail fence, and knocked on a rail of the fence
with a small stone. In a moment Walker came out of the house, looking
like a wild man, and seemed to know what was up. He went back and in
a few minutes a company of rebel cavalry passed along the road. I
waited until they got out of the way and then knocked again and he
came out the second time.

He came slowly to where I lay, and said, “What’s the matter?” He
recognized me, for it had been but a short time since we had a talk
with him on our way from Kentucky to Tennessee. I told him that about
one hundred and thirty men had got off the trail and had wandered
about two miles East.

He said, “Don’t say a word; there have been several such cases.” He
told me to go back in the thicket and not make any noise, for the
rebels were travelling up and down the road; and he would bring the
men out in a short time. In about two hours Walker returned, with the
men trailing after him. I never saw men so happy, for they knew if
they had remained there they would be captured and sent to Tuscaloosa.

We were all nearly starved, having eaten up all we had the day
before. I asked Walker if he could get us something to eat. He said
he did not have anything but Irish potatoes, and they were in the
ground, and some apples that were on the trees, and nothing to make
bread of. The rebels had taken nearly everything he had. He went to
work and dug the potatoes and gathered the apples, and cooked them in
some old tin buckets, the only things available. He cooked about two
bushels each of the apples and potatoes.

It was about nine o’clock in the morning when he brought the men to
his place, and at noon the “dinner” was ready. I got the men in line,
and Walker passed the buckets along. As the men had no knives, forks
or spoons, they had to use their hands, and some of them were so
hungry that they burned their fingers in their eagerness to partake
of the delicious and inviting repast. Our generous host continued to
supply them until all was consumed.

The men were so famished that while he was cooking the apples and
potatoes they peeled the bark off all the little trees and ate it.
The whole thicket, about an acre, looked white after the trees had
been thus denuded of their bark.

By this time it was two o’clock in the afternoon, and I told the men
to lie down and try to sleep, for we had to cross the “Dead Line” and
Powell’s Valley that night, and get into Cumberland Mountain, for I
knew the rebels were on our trail.

While we were lying on the ground about three hundred yards from the
main road, we could hear the rebels riding up and down the road. No
man was allowed to make any noise. They obtained a few hours of sleep
and rest, which was very much needed. I had two men detailed to keep
them from snoring, for some of them you could hear a hundred yards.
These men would go around and when a man would snore they would shake
him or give him a kick.

When night came, the perilous task of crossing the “Dead Line,” which
we had dreaded from the start, was before us. Several men had been
killed at this place during the preceding ten days. I asked Walker if
he knew a good Union man who could be relied upon to guide us to the
road. He said there was a man in the neighborhood who had helped men
to Powell’s Valley, and he would send a colored girl to see if the
man could be found. By the time we were ready to start, about nine
o’clock, he came. I questioned him and he seemed to be all right, so
we started, he in the lead. I had been on the trail before, and after
travelling about a mile I became a little suspicious and stopped the
men. I thought we were too far West. I formed a hollow square, with
this man in the center. I questioned him and found we were a mile
off the trail. We put the man under arrest, and went back to where
we had started and took up the right trail. I do not think this man
intended to lead us into the rebels’ hands, but he became bewildered
and scared.

[Illustration: CAPT. R. A. RAGAN AT HIS HOME AFTER ARREST. See page
8.]

We reached Powell’s Valley about three o’clock in the morning, and
halted on a little bank about ten feet above the level of the main
road leading up and down the valley, which was called the “Dead
Line.” I remember this experience as vividly as if it were but
yesterday. The woods in which we were concealed were as dark as hell,
and hell was in front of us. There were about one hundred and thirty
men standing in single file, and I could not hear a man move or
breathe. Even death itself could never be more still.

The valley we had to cross was about four hundred yards wide, and not
a tree or bush in the valley. The road in front of us was dusty, and
while we stood there we heard in the distance the rattle of sabers
and the galloping of rebel cavalry. We stood motionless as they
passed by, and the dust from the horses’ hoofs came up in the bushes
and settled on our shoulders. What a time it was for us! It seemed
that we were to cross the “Valley and shadow of death.”

When the rebel cavalry had passed, I cut off twenty-five men and
said, “Now, boys, go!” and they did go. They crossed that valley
like wild cattle. When I thought they were safely over, I cut off
twenty-five more men, and they also landed safely. I waited awhile,
and we could hear the rebel cavalry coming back. They passed down
again, so we waited about ten minutes and then I said, “Boys, now
follow me!” and we all crossed in safety and were at the foot of
Cumberland Mountain, which was rough, steep, rocky and pathless.
Every man had to pick his way until we nearly reached the top.

As we crossed the valley, the air was filled with the stench of the
decaying bodies of the men who had been killed a few days before. No
one could venture to remove or bury them. I understood afterward that
they attempted to cross in the daytime, and were killed.

When we reached the top of Cumberland Mountain we came to what was
called Bailes’ Meadow, a name and place familiar to nearly every
“pilot” and man who crossed the mountain. The boys were worn out,
mostly all barefooted and nearly naked from crawling through bushes
and briar thickets.

Some of them, when we reached the top of the mountain, looked back
into the valley of East Tennessee and said, “Farewell to rebellion;”
and they looked North and said, “I can see the Promised Land!” They
were happy, but they had been so long hiding in the woods that they
would only speak in whispers, and it was a long time before they
could break themselves from the habit. You could trail them by the
blood from their feet, but like brave men they marched along without
a murmur.

James H. Randolph, of Newport, Tennessee, was with us. I was sorry
for him as well as the others. His shoes were entirely worn out,
and his feet were bleeding. I can remember the circumstances as
distinctly as though it were but a few days ago. He looked at me and
said, “Bob, when we get back to Tennessee we will give them H—, and
rub it in!” He was mad, worn out, and nearly starved to death; but we
were out of danger and began to realize that we were free once more.

We went down to the settlements in Kentucky, but could not see a man.
It seemed that they had all gone to the Union or the rebel army;
but the farms appeared to be in good condition and well stocked, and
the fields were full of corn. We came to a large farm at the foot of
the mountain, with a large frame house, painted white, but could not
see any one. There was quite a field of corn, just in roasting ears.
We halted, and I told the boys we must have something to eat, for
we were nearly starved. We had had nothing to eat since we ate the
apples and potatoes at old man Walker’s.

I told four or five of the boys to go to the corn field and bring as
many roasting ears as they could carry, and some five or six others
to go out in the pasture where there was a nice flock of sheep and
bring in a couple of fat bucks, and we would cook the mutton with
the roasting ears. In the meantime others went to the house and got
a wash kettle in which to cook the mutton and corn, and some salt
for seasoning. By the time they returned the boys had arrived with
the roasting ears. I looked out in the pasture and saw five boys,
each pulling a sheep along. They were so hungry that they thought
they could eat a sheep apiece; but we only killed two, and they
were fine. We had men in the company who could equal any butcher in
dressing a sheep. We filled the kettle with corn and mutton, and had
a fine barbecue. We had no soap, and when the boys got through, their
mouths, faces and hands were as greasy as a fat stand. I sent one of
the boys to the house to tell the lady how much we had taken, and ask
what she charged.

She said, “Nothing.” Some of the boys had a little gold and silver
with them and wanted to pay her.

We reached Camp Dick Robinson in a few days, and remained there some
time. Col. Reeve had his regiment nearly made up. We organized our
company as Company K, which about completed the regiment. The company
was mustered into the service, when the boys drew their uniforms and
their new Enfield rifles. After they had shaved, cleaned up and put
on their new uniforms, I met them several times and did not know
them. They were the happiest men I ever saw.




CHAPTER VI.


The army was getting ready to start on the march for East Tennessee.
I had bought my officer’s uniform, with my straps on my shoulders
and a sword hanging by my side. I do not think that General Grant
or General Sherman ever felt as big as I did. Of course we had been
lying in the mountains of East Tennessee for nearly two years, and
had been chased by rebels and in danger of our lives every minute
of our time, and had to leave our families to be treated like
thieves—why not feel good as we were going back to relieve them? I
have known rebels to take women and whip them to make them tell where
their husbands were.

About the first of August we were ordered to be ready to march at a
minute’s notice, and in a few days the orders came for us to fall
in line. The band struck up the tune, “Going back to Dixie;” the
men cheered, and some shed tears of joy. The army concentrated at
Danville, Ky., and General Burnside took command of the 23d Army
Corps. We remained there a few days, and then took up our march in
fact for East Tennessee. We had a pretty hard time getting across the
mountains, as the roads were very bad, and the horses and mules were
not used to traveling; a great many of them gave out, and a large
number died.

We reached East Tennessee, below Knoxville, about the last of August,
1863, and marched in the direction of that city, passing between it
and Bean Station. We skirmished with the rebels on our way, and then
camped at Bull’s Gap for a few days.

While at Bull’s Gap, I asked Col. Reeve for a detail of six men to
go across the country about eighteen miles, to visit my home and
find out if any rebels were lurking around in the neighborhood. When
we got within a mile of Parrottsville, Cocke County, near where I
lived, we sent a Union woman to the town, requesting her to see an
old colored man by the name of Dave Rodman, who we knew had been
living there all his life, and to tell him to come out to a piece of
woodland just above the town.

About ten o’clock in the night we heard the old man coming in our
direction. We met him and he informed us that Henry Kilgore (the man
who conscripted me), Tillman Faubion and Cass Turner were in the
town; that Kilgore was at his home, and the other two men were across
the street at Faubion’s house. We went into the town, and George
Freshour, who was a Sergeant in my company, and one other man and
myself surrounded the Kilgore house, while the other three men went
across the street to the Faubion house and captured Faubion and Cass
Turner. Their horses were hitched to the fence, ready to mount and
make their way to North Carolina. It was raining, and the night was
very dark.

Freshour went to the front door and knocked; some one came to the
door, and he asked if Kilgore was at home. They said that he had
gone. As I was at the back kitchen door and the other man at the
south door, we knew he had not passed out. Freshour insisted that
Kilgore was in the house, and demanded that the door be opened.
Finally they let him in.

There was no light in the house. Freshour searched under the beds and
every place that he thought a man could hide in, but failed to find
his man. He then went into the kitchen and found Kilgore crouched
behind some old barrels. We brought him out and took him across the
street where the other two prisoners were. We then started down Clear
Creek, which ran through the Knobs, and we had to cross it ten or
fifteen times on foot logs that were narrow, smooth and slippery.

At the beginning of the Rebellion this man Henry Kilgore was a
conscript officer, and gave Leadbeater’s Command, which was stationed
at Parrottsville for the purpose of hunting Union men, all the
information he could obtain as to where the Union men kept their
corn, wheat, bacon and bee gum. He was a terror to the country.

Tillman Faubion was a nice man, and I never heard of him giving any
information, but he was a strong rebel sympathizer.

Cass Turner lived between Sevierville and Newport, Cocke County,
Tenn. He was a conscript officer, and one of the worst men in that
section. While hunting Union men who were lying out in the hills,
trying to get to Kentucky, he found that two or three men were hid in
a cave in his neighborhood. He and two others went to the cave and
found the men, and it was said he shot them and left their bodies in
the cave.

I remember when we started with these three men, Sergt. Freshour
walked behind Kilgore, and he insisted upon my giving him permission
to kill Kilgore, but I would not let him do any harm to any of the
men.

Cass Turner was a short man, weighing about two hundred pounds. He
could not walk the foot-logs, and had to get down and slide across on
his stomach. He and Kilgore pleaded with the boys to let them ride,
but they refused.

About ten miles below where we captured these men we came to the home
of a Mrs. Bible, whose husband had been captured by the rebels, taken
to Tuscaloosa and died. Freshour asked her if she had any honey, and
she replied that there was a bee hive in the barn that the rebels
had not found. Freshour went to the bee hive, took out a pound of
soft honey, put it in Kilgore’s tall white “plug” hat, and made him
wear it. The honey ran down his face, eyes and ears. The cause of the
Sergeant’s little act of “pleasantry” was the fact that Kilgore had
sent the rebels to Freshour’s father’s house, and they took all of
his bee hives, wheat, corn and bacon—in fact all he had. The rebel
now had an opportunity to taste the “sweets of adversity.”

We took these men to Knoxville and turned them over to the
authorities, and then returned to our command, at Bull’s Gap.




CHAPTER VII.


Preparations were being made at Missionary Ridge for battle, and the
rebels were concentrating all their forces at that point. Burnside’s
Corps returned to Knoxville and was besieged. After Grant defeated
the rebel forces at Missionary Ridge, Longstreet’s army came up to
Knoxville and attacked the Federal forces on the west end, but were
repulsed with great loss. Longstreet’s defeated and demoralized
forces took up their march to East Tennessee, making their way to
Virginia. Burnside’s Corps followed them as far as Jonesboro, and
then returned by way of Knoxville.

Grant and Sherman were getting their forces together, and making
preparations for the great march to Atlanta. Burnside arrived at Red
Clay and marched out to what is called Buzzard’s Roost and attacked
the enemy, but they were too strongly fortified. We fell back, and
Sherman commenced for the first time with his “flanking machine,”
as the rebels called it. We marched around through Snake Creek
Gap and formed in line of battle about a half mile from the rebel
breastworks, our Division being in front. We marched down through
a piece of woodland and up a hill about two hundred yards from the
rebel works. The grape and canister would cut through our ranks, and
we would close up the gaps. It was said that there were about five
hundred pieces of artillery playing at the same time. It seemed that
the earth was tottering to the center.

We were ordered to lie down within about one hundred yards of the
rebel breastworks. A line of battle passed over us, a Colonel being
mounted. His horse was shot from under him, but he never halted. The
horse fell and rolled down the hill, about ten steps from our line.

General Sherman, knowing our condition and that we were losing
hundreds of men, moved around on our extreme right and, getting the
range of the rebel breastworks, turned loose his artillery and plowed
the rebels out of the works. They retreated, and the day was ours.

When the battle was going on the cannon balls cut off the tops of
the trees, and they fell in our ranks and killed many of our men.
After the smoke of the battle had cleared away, I could see the rebel
sharpshooters hanging in the trees. They had tied themselves to keep
from falling if wounded, but some were dead. It was reported that the
rebels obtained from some foreign country the long-range guns then
used by the Southern sharpshooters, which seemed to be superior to
the rifles in possession of our forces.

This little account is not intended to give the history of the War or
the exciting campaign through Georgia, but only to give an insight
into my personal experiences.

I will here relate one little occurrence at Cartersville, Ga., after
we had driven the rebels across the Etowah River. I was detailed with
about fifty men to go around a mountain and down to a large flour
mill on the river, if we could, and burn it up with all its contents.
We arrived on the side of a mountain just above the mill and halted.
On the opposite side of the river was a high bluff, from which we
were fired upon by the rebels, but we sheltered ourselves behind
trees.

I took eight or ten men and went back a few hundred yards to a little
stream that flowed into a mill race leading to the mill. The race was
quite large, and as the water overflowed on both sides it formed a
screened pathway. We reached the mill, unseen by the rebels, and went
from the basement to the upper floor, where we found four men sacking
flour and corn meal and loading it in wagons in front of the mill. We
arrested them and ordered them to help us carry the flour and meal
back into the mill. We then unhitched the horses from the wagons,
took off the wheels and rolled them into the mill, and then set the
building on fire. When it was in full blast, we released the men and
went back the same way we came. Finding that our men had silenced the
rebels on the other side, we took up our march back to our command
and made our report.

We crossed the Etowah River the next day, and found the rebels had
formed a line of battle and built breastworks. We drove the rebel
picket line in, and fortified within about five hundred yards from
the enemy’s fortifications, which were on a ridge in a piece of
woodland. Our picket line was deployed on the edge of an old field,
about two hundred yards from the rebel breastworks. There were two
small log cabins between the lines, about thirty feet apart, from
which any of our men who exposed themselves were shot. I saw several
men killed while trying to pass between these cabins. Being in charge
of the brigade picket line, I received an order to charge the rebel
pickets and drive them into their works. I knew it was death to every
man, for I had been there all day and understood the situation. I
refused to make the charge, and one of Burnside’s Staff—I think it
was Major Tracy—rode up and said to me, “Why did you disobey orders?”
I told him if he remained where he was he would be shot. Just then
a ball struck him in the breast, and he fell from his horse and was
carried off the field. I received no more orders, and remained in
charge of the picket line.

That night about twelve o’clock I heard a cow bell tinkling in front
of us, sounding as if cattle were eating leaves off the bushes. I
called the attention of Sergeant George Freshour to it. He belonged
to my company, and was as brave a boy as ever lived. He said,
“Captain, that is rebels, trying to make us think it is cattle.”

He handed me his gun, and said he would crawl down in the bushes
and see what it meant. He was gone about ten minutes, when I heard
him crawling out of the bushes, nearly out of breath, and in a low
whisper he said, “Captain, the woods are full of rebels and they are
advancing!”

I immediately passed the word along the line to get ready for a
charge. In a few minutes I gave the order, “Charge!” and we did
charge! We drove the rebel line back into their works, and returned
to our former line. It was as dark as it could be, and they evidently
thought the whole Federal army was after them

The next morning at daylight I was relieved, and we were
congratulated for our action.

About four o’clock that evening the whole rebel line charged our
works. The battle lasted about two hours, but we repulsed them and
they fell back, leaving about three hundred dead and wounded on the
field.

Sherman was moving on the extreme right, as usual, turning the
rebels’ left flank, and they had to leave their works and retreat. We
continued in pursuit of the enemy, skirmishing continuously, and when
we reached the front of Atlanta we were on the extreme left near the
breastworks, guarding the wagon train.

About two o’clock on the afternoon of July 22, 1864, the rebels
attacked our left and drove our wagon train pell mell, forcing our
left wing back. General James B. McPherson came up with his Staff,
rode out through a piece of woodland in front of us, and ran into the
rebel cavalry and was killed. I was within thirty yards of him at the
time.

In about a half-hour General John A. Logan came up and took command.
The evening after General McPherson was killed the rebels charged on
our left, and it was said to be the hardest battle that was fought
while we were at Atlanta.

Next morning we were ordered around to the extreme right of Atlanta,
to tear up the railroad between Atlanta and Jonesboro. Our regiment
was the first to reach the railroad. We took the rails off the cross
ties and bent them, piled the cross ties on top of the rails and set
them on fire. Two trains came up from the South, making their way to
Atlanta, but discovered that the railroad was torn up, and backed out
and disappeared.

On the sixth day of August we were about the center of the army, and
were ordered to advance on the rebel works. There was an old field
between our forces and the rebels. They had fortified on a ridge as
usual, in the woods about three hundred yards from this old field,
and they had cut down all the small timber in front of their works,
the tops falling in our direction. They had sharpened the ends of the
timber, forming an abbatis, of which we were not aware until we had
reached within about twenty yards of their works. Some of our men
succeeded in getting through these sharp limbs and up to their works,
although they were killing our men by the dozen. Our color-bearer, a
boy by the name of John Fancher, placed the flag on the rebel works,
and they got hold of it and pulled him in. He was never heard of
again until after the war, when the rebel records showed that he died
in prison.

We had to fall back, leaving our dead and wounded on the ground. We
lost ninety-three men wounded and killed out of our regiment. The
officers who were killed were Capt. Bowers, Lieut. Johnson and Lieut.
Fitzgerald. Lieut. Bible and Lieut. Walker were wounded.

There were five killed and wounded in my company. One of them, George
Ricker, was killed in the fight and laid close to the edge of the old
field. His mess-mate, William Smith, saw him lying dead as we fell
back. After the battle was over, though the sharpshooters were still
firing, Smith asked me to let him go back and get the body, and help
bring it off the field. I said to him it was dangerous for him to
go, but he insisted and I finally consented. He went to where Ricker
was, and just as he stooped down to raise him up a ball struck him
in the side, and he fell dead on the body of his comrade. They were
warm friends in life, and in death were not separated. Afterward the
dead were buried, and the wounded cared for.

On the night of September 1, 1864, the rebels set fire to the arsenal
and all the military implements in Atlanta, and it seemed the whole
earth trembled with the explosions. The rebels evacuated the city,
moving out southeast, and on the morning of September 2d our forces
took possession, thus gaining the victory after a siege lasting over
a month.

Next morning we followed the rebels to Jonesboro and had a hard
battle, defeating them. After the battle was over we remained there
for a few days, and then returned to Atlanta.

The rebel regiment that I was urged to make up in my county,
heretofore mentioned, was captured in the Jonesboro fight, losing
quite heavily in killed and wounded. Some of the men learned that my
regiment was in the battle, and heard that I was there, and they sent
for me. I found that fifteen or twenty of the boys with whom I had
gone to school were prisoners, and several had been killed. Some of
these were boys I had played with when we were children. I make this
statement to show that fathers and brothers and neighbors and friends
had fought against each other. This regiment that I speak of was
paroled and went back to East Tennessee, and never returned to the
rebel army.

After the war we were all good friends and good citizens. These boys
went into the rebel army at the beginning of the war in 1861, and did
not stay around home to rob and kill Union men, and hang them for
their money.




CHAPTER VIII.


In this closing chapter I desire to give some incidents, etc.,
pathetic, humorous and otherwise, associated with but not included
in this somewhat disconnected and rambling account of my varied
experiences.

The noble and patriotic women in East Tennessee, whose untold
sufferings would fill a volume, most of whom have now passed beyond
that bourne from whence no traveler ever returns, should have their
names and deeds so far as possible recorded so that generations yet
to come may honor them and reverence their memory.

No night was too dark, no danger too imminent, no task too arduous
for these self-sacrificing women to perform when the opportunity was
presented to them to lend a helping hand to the hunted, starving
Union men.

What brave, loving mothers, wives and sisters of East Tennessee, who
faced the tempests of hatred and persecution during the Civil War;
whose willing hands were always ready to minister to the suffering
and distressed; who carried food to the hunted and perishing Union
men who wore the homespun clothes wrought by their own hands; who
through waiting years never faltered in love and faith and duty to
friend or to country!

The deeds of the loyal men of East Tennessee, could they have been
told individually in all their thrilling details and sufferings while
they were living, would rival in patriotic interest the stories of
Robert Bruce, William Wallace, or the brave Leonidas, who with his
three hundred Spartans held the pass at Thermopylae against the hosts
of Persian aggressors.

I recall another little incident that occurred in my travels from my
home to my father’s, near Newport, Tenn. About midway on the route
that I travelled, on the main road leading to Paint Rock, N. C.,
there lived a man by the name of John Hawk, who had two or three
large bull dogs. I had travelled several times over this route,
passing within two hundred yards of his house, and had never been
molested by these dogs, for I was careful about making any noise.
On one occasion I got too near the house, and happened to step on
a stick in my path, which snapped loudly and the dogs heard it and
started for me, yelping as they ran. I was fast on foot at that time,
but the dogs seemed to be gaining on me. I looked for a tree to
climb, but they were all too large. I knew the time was coming for
me to make a fight for my life, for they were getting dangerously
near. I picked up two knotty rocks as I ran, and soon reached a
high cross fence that had been built in the woods. Beside the fence
stood a small hickory tree, and I climbed up about ten feet just as
the dogs reached the place. It was so dark I could hardly see them.
They reared up and commenced barking as if they had treed a coon or
a possum. I drew back with one of the stones and struck one of the
dogs squarely in the mouth, and I heard his teeth shatter. He raised
a howl and ran away, with the other dog after him. After that time I
kept that house at a greater distance. That night I made my way home,
or in other words, to the mountains close by.

OLD UNCLE DAVID’S PRAYER.—This prayer was delivered by an old colored
man before we crossed the Holston River. We found him living in a
little log cabin on a farm. He was an old-fashioned preacher, and of
course a Union man.

“O Lord God A’mighty! We is yo’ chil’n an’ ’spects you to hea’ us
widout delay, cause we all is in right smart ob a hurry! Dese yer
gemmen has run’d away from de Seceshers and dere ’omes, and wants
to get to de Norf. Dey hasn’t got any time for to wait! Ef it is
’cording to de destination ob great Hebben to help ’em, it’ll be
’bout necessary fo’ de help to come right soon! De hounds an’ de
rebels is on dere track! Take de smell out ob de dogs’ noses, O
Lord! and let Gypshun darkness come ober de eysights ob de rebels.
Confound ’em, O Lord! Dey is cruel, and makes haste to shed blood.
Dey has long ’pressed de black man an’ groun’ him in de dust, an’ now
I reck’n dey ’spects dat dey am a gwin’ to serve de loyal men de same
way. Help dese gemmen in time ob trouble, an’ left ’em fru all danger
on to de udder side ob Jo’dan dry shod! An’ raise de radiance ob yo’
face on all de loyal men what’s shut up in de Souf! Send some Moses,
O Lord! to guide ’em fru de Red Sea ob Flickshun into de promis’
land! Send some great Gen’ral ob de Norf wid his comp’ny sweepin’
down fru dese yer parts to scare de rebels till dey flee like de
Midians, an’ slew dereselves to sabe dere lives! O Lord! bless de
Gen’rals ob de Norf! O Lord! bless de Kunnels! O Lord! bless de
Capt’ins! O Lord! bless der loyal men makin’ dere way to de promis’
land! O Lord, Eberlastin’! Amen.”

This prayer, offered in a full and fervent voice, seemed to cover our
case exactly, and we could join in the “amen.” We then crossed the
Holston River, but not dry shod.

Some time in 1862 the loyal men of Cocke County, East Tennessee,
refused to go into the rebel army. They lived in what was called the
Knobs. There were about four hundred of these men, some farmers, some
mechanics and some blacksmiths, all loyal to the Government.

Leadbeater with his command was sent to Parrottsville, in the same
county, and went into camp for the purpose of looking after these
men, who had built breastworks on a high hill in that locality. They
sawed off gum tree logs about the length of a cannon, and bored out
holes in these logs large enough to load with tin cans full of large
bullets and pieces of iron. They made iron bands out of wagon tires,
and put them around the log cannons to keep them from exploding
when fired. It was said that they could fire these wooden guns with
accuracy.

The rebels heard of these preparations, and with a large force went
into this Knob country and found the works, and captured about
one hundred of these men and brought them to Parrottsville, where
the army was in camp. They put them into a large one-story frame
school-house, and placed a heavy guard around the prison, They kept
them there for some time and treated them like brutes.

A man by the name of Hamilton Yett, who was a strong rebel, came
into the prison and said he wanted “to look at the animals!” Such an
expression from a man enraged the prisoners, and one of them, named
Peter Reece, picked up a piece of brick from an old fire-place and
threw it at Yett, striking him on the head and fracturing his skull.
In a few minutes the soldiers came in the prison and took Reece out
and hung him to a tree close to the prison, where he hung for three
days. His wife and other women came and took the body down and hauled
it away, no man being allowed to assist them.

Some of the men who were in this prison were taken to Tuscaloosa,
some made their escape, and some were killed while trying to escape.
There was a man by the name of Philip Bewley, who was a Methodist
preacher, a good man and as strong a Union man as there was in East
Tennessee. While in this prison he would pray for the success of the
North and for the men who were with him in prison. He lived until
after the war.

In this connection a little incident that occurred after the war may
not be out of place in this small volume.

There was in our regiment a man by the name of Walker, who had one of
his eyes shot out in the campaign in Georgia. When the war was over
he came home, studied for the ministry and became a noted preacher.

In 1867 there was a big revival in the same town, Parrottsville,
about three hundred yards from the old school-house in which Bewley
and the other Union men were confined and where Reece was hung. While
the revival was going on one night at the church, Walker was praying
the Lord to guide and direct the people in the way they ought to go,
and that all might get to Heaven; Bewley rose up and said,

“Yes, thank the Lord, Brother Walker; there will be no rebels up
there to shoot our eyes out!”

I heard this myself, and was not surprised, for he was the wittiest
man I ever heard. It raised no excitement, for it was just after the
war and prejudice was running high at that time; but, thank God, the
war has been ended for forty-five years, and the North and the South
have united, and we are now one people, one Nation, under one flag.

[Illustration: U.S.A. flag]

[Illustration: FIFTY YEARS AFTER THE WAR.]




  Transcriber’s Notes

  pg 13 Changed: wading part of the way and swiming
             to: wading part of the way and swimming

  pg 20 Changed: I had to abondon the attempt
             to: I had to abandon the attempt

  pg 33 Changed: whcih was called the “Dead Line.”
             to: which was called the “Dead Line.”

  pg 41 Changed: The grape and cannister
             to: The grape and canister