The Adventures of Two Alabama Boys

I STAYED that night with a man who lived on the bank of the river, and found out that he had been with Jeff Thompson, the Confederate Cavalry General, but had been caught and made to take the oath of allegience. Such men, I afterwards discovered, were called "galvanized" men. Before I left the house next morning I was treated to the sight of a steamboat, loaded with Federal soldiers, going down the river. They were cheered lustily by the negroes, but the white man and I observed them in silence. Of course, I told him nothing about my intentions, except that I was going to Greenville, Mo. Thinking it possible that it might be difficult to get a letter back to my friends later on, I wanted to find a suitable place to write. This I discovered by questioning an old negro. He said he belonged to "Marse John Oliver. Young Marse John was with Jeff Thompson and Miss Mary was at home." I concluded I could confide in the mother after that information, so I approached the house and introduced myself to the lady, telling her that I was going South and wanted to write some letters back to my friends. She kindly showed me to a back room and gave me stationery. I wrote to my friends in Wisconsin, begging their pardon for deceiving them, and asking them to redeem my pistol, so that the man at Calumet might not lose anything. This they did and

THREE YEARS AFTER THEY SENT THE PISTOL TO ME,

and I have it now as a souvenir of those days.

The lady said: "I would be very glad for you to spend the afternoon and night with us, so that my husband might see you; but it would be dangerous for you and for us. The Home Guards are roaming through the country all the time, and if you should be found here, they might have my husband arrested and carried off to prison, on the charge of harboring a rebel, or they might burn our property down. There is no telling what they would do. I am very uneasy for you, lest they shall meet you and kill you." These Home Guards, as I afterwards found out, were irresponsible soldiers, most of them Germans, who were but little more than marauders, and I afterwards found that we had some of the same sort among the Confederates. I had but little apprehension of trouble, as I was to go to places where there were Federal garrisons. I went through the first town late in the afternoon with a "galvanized" man whom I happened to meet just before reaching the village. I saw the soldiers all around on the streets, drinking and carousing. A little further along, I spent the night in a home where an old gentleman and his family were living, taking care of the plantation and slaves belonging to a young man who was with Jeff Thompson. Of course they told me very much about the war, but I said nothing to them further than that I was going to Greenville. The next morning when I came down stairs, I found the girls on the back veranda. Being of a confiding disposition, especially with pretty girls, I told them in a few words that I was going South to the Confederate Army. Just then breakfast was announced. I sat down to the table with my back towards the front door, and the girls sat on the opposite side of the table, in full view of the front door and the public road. As I was chatting with them, casting sheep's eyes the while, I noticed one of them suddenly change color, as she gazed intently towards the front door, and she remarked:

"THE ROAD IS FULL OF YANKEES."

Immediately the frogs leaped into my throat, and I was wondering what I would say to the fellows when they came in. One girl bounded towards the door and stood in it. It was the days of the hoop-skirt and she just about filled the door, so that nobody might see past her. The other girl begged me to run up stairs and hide, which I was not at all inclined to do. The old people were paralyzed, because they did not understand it at all. I hastily informed them of what I had told the girls. That is one time I didn't know what I ate for breakfast. It might have been knives and forks and salt-cellars for all I knew, but I kept eating. The girl in the door turned her head and said: "They are going into the lot." The old gentleman said: "I don't reckon they are coming in the house at all; they left some wounded horses with me several weeks ago and told me yesterday they were going to send after them." It was a great relief to hear that, but I could not understand why a whole regiment should have to come after a few horses. Presently the girl said: "They are going off," and I felt a pressure removed, equal to five hundred bales of cotton. I felt as light as a feather and if I had had wings, I certainly would have used them.

Each of these two nights, I spent twenty-five cents, and that carried with it a lunch for the next day. As speedily as possible I got away and

WENT FORTY-FIVE MILES THAT DAY.

Mind you, I did not say I walked it; when I was dead sure nobody saw me, I ran. I saw very few people that day. The Home Guards had done their work well, as the burned houses indicated on every side.

Late that afternoon I was told that I was approaching another village, but I need not go by the village if I did not wish to; I could turn to the left and cross the creek lower down, and both roads led to Greenville. I had no business in the town, so I took the left hand. Just before night I came to a deep, narrow, ugly looking little stream that had no bridge across it. Nobody had been fording it. I looked in vain for a log on which to cross. I didn't want to go up the stream, for that would carry me up into the town. I found a pole, that probably nothing but a squirrel had ever crossed on, but I ventured to straddle it, and then I inched myself across. A kodak could have gotten a picture worth while then. Getting on the other side, I went up to the most desolate looking home I had ever seen. Not a sign of life, except now and then the cackle of a chicken flying to the roost. I knocked at the front door but no response coming, like a tramp, I went around to the kitchen. There was an old lady, standing before a great, old-fashioned fire place cooking supper. It seemed to me I never smelt the frying of bacon that was so delicious in my life. I said: "I am traveling and am very tired; I want to stay all night with you, please ma'am." She invited me in saying: "Sit down by the fire here; when my son comes, maybe he will let you stay. I don't know whether he will or not, he is mighty curios." The kitchen had a dirt floor. She put corn bread and fried meat on the table and invited me to put my stool up to the table and eat, which I was not slow to do. Just as I began eating,

THERE CAME IN SUCH A MAN AS I HAVE NEVER SEEN BEFORE OR SINCE

I judge he was about twenty-one or twenty-two years old, with immense jaw bones, high cheek bones, just a little space between his eyebrows and hair, overhanging eyebrows and way-back little beady eyes. He scowled at me, then said to the old lady: "Who's this you've got here?" I looked up and said: "Good evening sir, your mother was kind enough to invite me in. I want to stay all night with you and I hope you can accommodate me." He took his old slouch hat off, threw it on the floor, sat down and went to eating. Not a word passed. That is another time I don't know what I ate. I eyed him and he eyed me, but I mostly eyed the grub. He got through before I did, picked up his hat and shot out the door without a word. He had been gone not ten minutes when the biggest rain I ever heard, began to fall and I judge it fell through the whole night. The old lady showed me to a bed and I retired, wondering whether I would wake up dead or alive, feeling pretty certain that I would wake up dead, for I was sure that boy was bent on mischief. Next morning, I had my breakfast by candle-light, paid the old lady a quarter, and said to her: "I am completely broken down, my feet are blistered and swollen, I could hardly get my shoes on this morning, I have no money. Is there anybody living near here, on whom it would not be an imposition, who might let me rest until Monday morning?" The reply was: "I have a son about three miles down the road. He is plenty able to do it if he would, but he is curioser than that boy you saw here last night." When I got out the front gate, I looked down on that insignificant little old creek, and there was a stream of water big enough to float the navy of the United States. It did not dawn on me then, but later I felt sure that boy crossed the creek and went to town to report me to the Yankees and that rain and overflow prevented his designs from being carried out. Doubtless the stream remained up the greater part of the day. I trudged along, dragging my feet as best I could, and after so long a time, reached the home of this "curioser" son. He came out and stood on the stoop to listen to my yarn about going to Greenville.

HE WAS NOT A PRAYER-MEETING MAN

I judged from his language. He said: "Do you think I am a fool? You are nothing but a little old rebel or some little old boy going to the rebels. I hope to God the Home Guards will find you today and kill you. If I see any of them I am going to put them on your track." Of course I had no further argument with that man. I went off a few hundred yards, felt of my knees to see if there were any joints there or not, for up to that time I had not discovered them that day. How mad I did get! I gritted my teeth, shook my fist, bowed my neck, and shot out, going thirty-five miles. I never saw a soul all day.

The remains of burned homes I could see; now and then a place was spared and evidently the people were about, but out of sight. I was almost in despair of reaching a place to spend the night, when just before dark, I looked down and saw one of the most beautiful sights I ever beheld. It was an old country home, the doors wide open, good fires burning, the negro quarters stretching out and fires burning brightly in the cabins. I heard the lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, the cackling of poultry, all indicating a place of plenty. I found it to be an old lady's home, whose son and grand son had been with Jeff Thompson captured and galvanized. They were so outspoken, I made bold that night to tell them who I was and where I was going. They said: "It is impossible for you to go any further until Caster river goes down. As the road runs, it crosses the river three times. There is a possibility of your going far up the river and getting a "galvanized" man to put you across in a boat, and at another place getting a widow woman to send you across on horseback and then

REACHING OLD 'UNCLE McCULLOUGH'S,'

but you ought not to undertake it. Stay with us until Monday morning at least." The old lady did not hear this conversation. The boys were off early the next morning to their work, confident that I was going to remain. I concluded the mother ought to be consulted, and so I ventured to say, as she was washing the dishes: "The boys said that it would be all right for me to remain and rest here until Monday morning. I suppose it will be all right with you?" She said "y-e-s, I reckin so." I saw at once that I was not welcome. I thought about it a little while and presently returned and said: "I believe, on reflection, if you will fix me up a lunch, I will go on." She did so without any protest. "How much do I owe you?" I asked. "Half a dollar," was the reply. It was the first time anybody suggested a price like that and I had only a quarter left. I took out the quarter and said: "This is as near as I can come to paying it." I fully expected the old soul to say "keep it," but, bless your life, she took it, saying: "That's lots better than a heap of them do; they come here and bring their horses and spend a week and don't say turkey about money."

So I made the trip, after many adventures, falling into the overflow a time or two, and reached "Uncle McCullough's" just at night fall. Providence was leading me, I believe. Had I carried out my plans to remain until Monday morning, that stream at the village would have gone down and the Yankees doubtless would have found me there, then I would have been done for.

So much for my antipathy to staying where I am not welcome. It served me in good turn on that occasion as it has on many another.

"Uncle McCullough" was an uncle of Gen. Ben McCullough, who was distinguishing himself at this time as a Confederate General. As I stood in the door and looked at the old patriarch, standing before a large fire, in an old-fashioned fireplace,

I FELT LIKE ONE IN A DREAM.

He was the same height and same complexion as my own uncle, Richard Bryan, with whom I had lived when a boy at Pleasant Hill in Dallas county. The similarity of the house, the cedar trees in front and the further coincidence of both being class-leaders in the Methodist church—I was almost dazed that night as I thought about it. I said to the old gentleman: "I am traveling, I have no money, and I want to stay all night, please sir." The response from his old warm heart came immediately: "Why come in, my son, of course you can stay all night, money don't make any difference here. You seem to be wet, you must have some dry clothes," with that he took me into another room and dressed me up in his best, wrung out my clothes and hung them before the fire to dry. He took me into a kitchen, with a dirt floor, identical with "Uncle Dick's" home when I was a boy, and introduced me to a dear old soul who was the very image of old "Aunt Nancy." After supper I opened my heart to him: "I have been saying I was going to Greenville. I don't know anything about Greenville, or care anything about it; I want to go South and join the Confederate army." The old man said: "Well, my son, you are dangerously near Greenville, only twelve miles; the Yankees were out here today and may be out here tonight. I don't know what I will do with you. It is too cold for you to go out to the fodder-loft, so I am going to put you in bed and pray the Lord to protect you."

YOU PEOPLE, WHO DON'T BELIEVE IN PRAYER:

The boy I am telling you about was not very religious, but when the old patriarch told him he was going to pray for him, when he lay down on that bed, he felt as secure as if an army of soldiers had been around him.

We ate breakfast by candle-light, and just about sun-up we were climbing the hill back of his garden. When I reached the top, I saw stretched out for miles Caster river bottom, overflowing everything. The old man said: "Now, my son, you will see nobody today. You will find no road, except this path. You follow this trail right down this ridge and you will come to Ira Abernathy's. There you will have to stop. It is folly to try to go any further until the overflow goes down. Nobody will ever find you there. Ira is a good Methodist; he has been galvanized. You tell him that Uncle McCullough sent you there and said for him to take care of you until the river goes down, it will be all right." I sauntered along that day, one of the prettiest Sundays I ever saw. Deer, turkeys and squirrels were seen on every side. Late in the afternoon, I reached the end of my journey and delivered "Uncle McCullough's" message. When I was through, I saw a face that reminded me exactly of the faces of those Alabamians in Chicago at Camp Douglas. I saw through it instantly. Ira had conscientious regard for his oath. If he kept me there and it was found out, it would go hard with him. Before I went to bed, my

MIND WAS MADE UP NOT TO REMAIN.

I found out from him it was fourteen miles to Bloomfield where the Confederates were, about nine miles was overflowed, that the depth would not be above my waist, except at the last. Duck Creek was deep and dangerous, that I would pass only one house and that was just before I reached Duck creek.

So next morning I started, and in five minutes I was knee deep in water. I could tell the way the road ran by watching the trees, so I kept just on the outside of the edge in the woods. Before a great while I came to a slough which seemed to be dangerous, and on sounding it I found that here was one place that my friend had certainly forgotten; it was very much over my head. I turned to find a log to cross it, which I successfully walked, but on going out on the other side on a limb, the limb broke and I fell into the water. Remember this was March, and it was in Missouri, and you can imagine that I was not very comfortable. You can see something of the happy-go-lucky boy, when I tell you that out there, half a mile from the road, wet as a drowned rat and water all around me, I took out my knife and stood for half an hour by the side of a smooth beech tree, and carved my name: "W. B. Crumpton, Pleasant Hill, Ala." It is there to this day, if the forests have not been destroyed.

I waded along throughout the day and late that afternoon I passed the house on my right, the only dry land I had seen. Beyond the house a slough ran up from the overflow into a corn field. The fence was built up to each end of a log across the slough and rails were stuck in above the logs as a sort of water fence. Behind these rails on the log I was making my way across, when I heard a corn stalk crack over in the field. Looking in that direction I saw a Yankee, in full uniform, with a gun on his shoulder. How those frogs did leap into my throat. What was I to do? I did not dare to dodge; in that case, I could never have explained it if he had seen me. If I should go on the road, he would probably see me, so I eased myself off the end of the log and walked straight away from him into the overflow. I had no idea where I was going, only I knew I was going away from him. I was feeling for bullets in my back all the time, but I am sure that he did not see me. If he had, he would have killed me and have thrown my body in the creek. Now see how Providence leads! If I had followed the road and escaped his eye, I would have come to the creek, with no possible chance of crossing. Naturally I would have turned up the creek, never would have dreamed of going down into the overflow. As it turned out, I came to a raft just in the creek. It had broken loose, I suppose, from a mill above and had lodged there. By wading in, waist deep, I climbed on it, but found I was still some distance from the bank on the other side. I had not looked around since I left the Yankee, so standing on the raft I eased myself around and saw no one. When I measured the water on the other side I found it too deep for me to wade and I couldn't swim a lick. I reached around in the water, got hold of a loose sassafras pole, floated it around, stuck it in the bank on the other side, and undertook to walk it and it partially under water. Of course it wobbled; I went down head and ears. Coming up fortunately I grasped my bundle in one hand and my cap in the other, and found myself chin deep in the water. I waded out on the other side, which seemed to me "the bank of sweet deliverance." I had been told that I would be on the side of the Confederates when I got there. I walked briskly up to the top of the hill and looked around to see if there were any signs of camp-fires anywhere, indicating the presence of the Yankee forces. I supposed that the man I saw in the bottom was on picket. Seeing no signs of camp, I shot down the hill as fast as I could run. An old man seeing me shouted: "Hello, there." I replied: "Hello, yourself." He said: "Stop and give me the news." I said: "I have no news." He yelled again: "Have you seed any soldiers." I replied: "Yes, I saw one back there in the river bottom." He said: "Yes, that's Ike Reader, I heard he was home 'tother day; but stop and give me some news." I said: "No, I haven't time," and on I rushed. I won't say I went the remaining five miles in three-quarters of an hour, but I went it in a very short time. The idea of being caught almost within sight of the rebel lines possessed me and it put wings on my feet. When I reached the borders of the village just about night fall, there was a man standing, as if he were waiting for me, and when I told him my story, he said: "Come right along up to Capt. Miller's home, and you will be welcome." I found that the Captain owned a steamboat on the St. Francis river, and I guess I could have gotten passage if I had asked for it, but I never thought of it. I was given dry clothes, treated most tenderly, and the next morning at breakfast was told that the rebel scouts were in town.

Chapter Six

Released on parole; On the lookout; Reaches Helena, Ark.; Aboard the steamer; Black coffee; Reaches Vicksburg; Finds one man who believes him; In ten miles of Newton; On the Mobile and Ohio; More trouble; Reaches home.

THAT was the best news I had ever heard. The Captain accompanied me to the front door and said: "You can go out of the front gate there, or you can take this path and go through the grove." I looked down the path and saw the scouts passing the gap, and just as I got to the gap all of them had passed except one. I said to him: "I saw a Yankee in the river bottom yesterday." He said: "Do you know who he was?" I said: "No, but I might know the name, if I heard it." He said: "Was it Ike Reader?" I said: "Yes, that was the name I heard a man call." So he put spurs to his horse and went to the head of the column shouting as he went: "Old Ike Reader is at home." I judge they had heard that he was home on furlough and were going after him.

Twenty-four miles wasn't much of a walk so I sauntered along through the day and just at dark came up to the pickets. They were raw recruits, whom I suppose had never known duty before. They had stacked their guns and built a fire and were out in the woods gathering wood to burn through the night. They were frightened nearly to death. I could have captured them without any difficulty. I told them they were the fellows I was hunting for and that I wanted to surrender. Three of them took me back about a mile and let me go to bed, while they sat up and watched me all night.

RELEASED ON PAROLE.

Next morning they carried me back several miles to the company of Capt. Hunter. I found him to be an old veteran of Mexican war. He had recruited a company and was up there in Stoddard County drilling them and enlisting other men before going South. When I told him my story, he said: "I will release you on parole of honor, that you will not leave the camp. You will be safer with us than traveling alone. In a little while we will go down the river to Helena, Ark. That will be right on your road. I will take you in my mess and you will be treated right." Such kindness on the part of a perfect stranger, under the circumstances, was unusual and greatly encouraging to me. The next afternoon the scouts came along with their man. They had found him at home. He was there on a furlough. I saw their Captain and ours talking very animatedly for probably thirty minutes and as he rode off, he said: "He is mine by rights, and I am going to have him." When he was gone the Captain took me into his tent and asked me if I had met those scouts. I related to him the circumstance of my going through the grove at Bloomfield, rather than through the front gate, which would have caused me to meet the head of the column. I did it only from convenience, not from any fears that I had. He replied: "You certainly were fortunate in going through that grove. The Captain of that Company is nothing more than a marauder, although he wears the Confederate uniform. It is his custom, when he meets a civilian anywhere, to kill him, but he will take a Federal soldier prisoner. I will not ask you to enlist with us, but you be just as one of our soldiers. Have you a gun ready at hand with ammunition and whenever you see those scouts, don't expose yourself. We will pass and repass them on the trip south, no doubt, and he is mean enough to shoot you down. We are going to protect you." That the Captain was not mistaken in the man, I soon discovered. We saw a suttler pass our camp one day, and just a little later saw this Captain with his scouts going in the same direction. It was not a great while before we heard pistol shots and presently they came back and our men learned from them that the Captain had taken the suttler out into the woods and shot him, leaving his wagon standing in the road. He was a harmless fellow who was gathering up chickens and eggs and butter, and selling them wherever he could, sometime to the Federals and sometimes to the Confederates.

ON THE LOOKOUT.

You may be sure I was on the lookout. The number of Yankees that they had as prisoners increased to probably twenty-five. When the companies assembled to start South under General Thompson, sometimes these scouts were ahead and sometimes in the rear. They passed and repassed us. Word went down the line whenever they were approaching, "Crump, look-out" and I was always ready. The old Yankee soon found out that I was the man who had told on him and learned my name and he would shout when he came in sight of me, "Hello, Crump," and I would reply, "Hello, Ike." The first service I did after joining the Confederate army at Columbus, Miss., was to guard the Federal prisoners, and who should I find there but old Ike Reader.

REACHES HELENA, ARK.

It was several weeks before we reached Helena, Ark. There I ate breakfast with the boys, the morning before they went up the river. I could have secured rations if I had thought of it. I learned afterwards a soldier was satisfied so long as his stomach was full. I went to see Gen. Thompson, however, and got from him a paper, stating that I had come to them up in Missouri, that I was on my way to my friends in Mississippi, and commending me to people wherever I went. I could have gotten transportation from him if I had thought of it, but never dreamed that I could be hungry again or ever have need to ride anymore. I remained all that day and night, sleeping on the wharf boat, and the next day, without anything to eat. I did not have the courage to beg. That was the only quality of the tramp that I had not learned.

BOARDED THE STEAMER.

About 2 o'clock I went to the hotel intending to ask for dinner. While I was sitting there, trying to work up courage enough to approach the clerk, I heard a boat coming down and hastened away and boarded the steamer, H. D. Mears. As she was pulling off, I approached the Captain and showed him my paper from Gen. Thompson. He made the atmosphere blue with profanity. He said it was simply absurd, that I had forged that paper, that Gen. Thompson would not have given me that paper without giving me transportation too, he almost made me believe he was right. It did seem absurd. Then I asked him to credit me with my transportation to Vicksburg, to give me the address of some one to whom I might send the money. He replied, "I would not credit my grand-mammy."

The river was high and boats could not approach land. Seeing a skiff coming over from the Arkansas side, from where a landing was supposed to be, thinking that he was going to put me off, I approached him and asked that he put me off on the Mississippi side, as I was afoot. His reply was, "I am not going to put you off; you can ride as far as you want to ride, to —— if you want to." I felt that he was very much more likely to go there than I. I told him I had asked for nothing except the privilege to ride.

TAKES FEVER.

He replied: "How are you going to get any grub?" I answered that I did not know. I was too independent to let him know that I needed some just at that time. Being exposed to the weather and drinking Mississippi water and doing without food brought on fever, which I had all the night. The next morning I was in a desperate condition. The desire for food had given place to a feeling that I'd as soon die as not. Late in the afternoon, I began to feel a delirium stealing over me. It seemed all like a dream to me; could not tell where I was. I knew it was for the want of something to eat. I had sense enough left to know that the kitchen was the place to find relief, so I found my way to the door, and stood there looking into the face of the old negro man, a perfect giant in appearance. I said: "Uncle, I am on this boat without a cent of money, and haven't had anything to eat for three days; I am sick and about to die." He looked me all over from head to foot, then put a stool up to the table and said in a commanding tone: "Set down there."

BLACK COFFEE.

I wasn't used to being ordered about by negroes that way, but I took no offense on that occasion. He filled a quart cup with the blackest coffee I ever saw, put three tablespoonsful of sugar into it, stirred it and sat it before me and said: "Drink that." I guess he must have seen cases like mine before. I commenced to sip the coffee, for it was too hot to drink. I shall never forget that cup of coffee while I live. The very first sip seemed to go to the ends of my fingers and toes; it thrilled me through and through. As I drank I could not restrain my tears. When I was through, in about half an hour, I was in a profuse perspiration. I looked at the three large pieces of steak, as big as my hand and four hot rolls, and said: "Uncle, if I should eat that meat, I am sure I would die in half an hour. If you have no objections, I will put it in my overcoat pocket and eat it at my leisure." He said: "That is just the thing for you to do." Thanking him, I departed, and commenced reaching in my pocket, pulling off pieces of steak, chewing it and swallowing the juice. I "chawed" all night, in my waking moments. When I went to sleep, I was chewing that meat. At sun rise the next morning, I found myself at Vicksburg, with no fever and as hungry as a wolf. I went out like Pat, "in quest of a breakfast, for me appetite." I was determined never to speak to another man. I was like that fellow who said, "the more he knew about men, the better he liked dogs." So many of them did not believe my story and took it out in cursing that I was thoroughly disgusted with them. Seeing the sign: "Mrs. Roebecker, Private Boarding," I took a seat in an old store nearby and watched the door until all the boarders came out. How like a tramp! I approached the door and was received very graciously by the kind lady, who gave me a good breakfast. When she asked me how I was going to get home, I replied, "I am going to walk." She protested, "No, don't do anything of the kind. Go up and see Mr. ——, the superintendent of the railroad. He is a kind, nice gentleman, and I am sure he will help you on your way." I plucked up courage enough to speak to the Superintendent, and found him just as the lady said, a perfect gentleman.

FINDS ONE MAN WHO BELIEVED HIM.

He said: "Of course, my son; I will give you a ticket, sign this due bill, and we will send it over to our agent, Dr. Watts at Newton Station, and your people can pay it after you get home." I shall never forget his kindly expression, and the effect it had on me. My tears are not usually very shallow, but kindness always humbled me and brought out the tears. I got aboard the train and in a little while fell asleep. I slept all the afternoon. Don't remember passing Brandon or Jackson or any place.

IN TEN MILES OF NEWTON.

About ten o'clock at night some soldiers came on the crowded train. One took a seat in the aisle on his knap-sack right by me. I said, "How far is it to Newton?" He said, "Ten miles." After a while I heard the brakeman call out "Chunky Station." I said: "How far is it from Newton now?" He said, "Why, fellow, it is twenty miles, you have passed Newton." By the time I got myself together, the train was under way again, so I remained seated until I got to Meridian. I remembered that Meridian was just above Enterprise, and there I knew one man. Seeing a train on the M. & O. just ready to start for Mobile, I made a rush and got aboard and took my seat among a lot of soldiers. Presently the conductor came in with his lantern, calling, "tickets," and

MY TROUBLES BEGAN AGAIN.

I showed him my paper from General Thompson, and said to him: "You know Mr. Edmondson, who keeps the hotel at Enterprise, I hired a horse and buggy from him two years ago to go out to Garlandsville. I am sure I can get the money and leave it anywhere you say, if you will let me pass on." He was another man that did not attend prayer meeting. He said, "No, sir, Edmondson is dead, you are lying anyhow and now get off at the wood station." There was a Sergeant on board, in charge of some soldiers, who took an interest in me. He said: "Captain, I have more transportation than I have men; let this man go on my transportation." He said: "No sir, he has got to get off. He is spinning a yarn. Who ever heard of a man coming back from California without money." So I got off, and when the train started, I stepped up on the back-platform. It was only a little while before we reached Enterprise. I saw the conductor standing on the platform, with his lantern, and I walked boldly by him. He easily detected me, as I had on a fur cap, very uncommon in the South, He said: "Are you ready to pay me, sir?" I replied: "No." He said: "If you are a gentleman, you will do as you said you would do. Leave that money here with Mr. Jackson, who keeps the eating house." I said: "I am not a gentleman now since you made me steal a ride, gentlemen don't do that way."

THEN HE COMMENCED CURSING.

I threw myself back with my thumbs under my arms and said: "Now, blaze away and when you think you have cursed out the value of your ticket, let me know and I will pass on." That was about one o'clock in the morning. Presently the engineer rang his bell and the Captain jumped on, shaking his fist at me as the train pulled out. I responded by shaking both my fists at him. That is my way of keeping out of a row with a conductor, wait until he gets off. Of course I was very mad while he was cursing, but I was in no condition to fight.

I went to the hotel and registered my name like a gentleman: "W. B. Crumpton, San Francisco, Cal." When I awoke the next morning, and looked into a glass, for the first time in six weeks, I was like Pat, when he said: "Pat, is this you, or is it somebody else?" I had been over the camp-fires and my face was smoked and greasy, and I looked more like a negro than a white man. By diligent use of soap and water, I got myself clean down to my collar. I had an old woolen comforter, that I had worn around my neck. I turned it wrong side out, pinned it close around my throat, spread it over the front of my dirty shirt, buttoned my coat and, imagine I made a right decent appearance. I took my seat at the table, crowded with people. I have no recollection when anybody got up. I came to myself after a while, when I asked for another biscuit, I looked at the negroes, whose eyes were almost popping out, and I realized that I was the only one at the table. I looked at the astonished lady at the end of the room and stammered out: "Is this Mrs. Edmondson? Excuse me please, I am nearly starved." She insisted on my eating more, but I didn't have the face to do it. I said: "Mrs. Edmondson, do you remember a boy coming here two years ago and hiring a horse and buggy to go out to Garlandsville?" She said: "Yes, I remember you well." I told her my story, and asked her to credit me until my people could send her the money, to which she readily consented.

REACHES HOME.

I journeyed on for twenty-four miles and late that afternoon came to my brother-in-law's home. They were all looking for me. I had separated at Panama with a man by the name of Simpson, who had been a commission merchant in Mobile, and I had given him a letter. He went across to Aspenwall, thence to Havana, and ran the blockade into Mobile. I had discussed doing that with my brother before I left San Francisco, but he advised very much against it.

I started from Beloit the 6th of March and reached home on the 23rd of April, traveling probably a thousand or twelve hundred miles, much of it on foot. As I spun my yarn that night around the fire-side, my sister said, "Brother, why didn't you ask Mrs. Edmondson to send you out in a buggy?" I said, "Bless my life, I never thought of it until you mentioned it." I had gotten so used to traveling afoot, it made no difference.

It was not long before I found a recruiting officer, Lieutenant John McIntosh, and gave him my name. At the appointed time, I took the train at Newton for Columbus, Miss., where on May 1862, I joined Company H., of the 37th Mississippi Infantry. I had a mind to join an Alabama regiment, but my people insisted on my enlisting in a Mississippi Regiment, so that they might more easily hear from me. The Lieutenant promised me a thirty days furlough to visit my Alabama kin as soon as I was enlisted at Columbus. After I had signed my name, he said, "Wash, do you want your furlough now?" I said, "No, you might get in a battle while I was gone, or the war might be over before I returned, so I will not take it." That furlough never came, except on two or three occasions afterwards, when I was wounded. Some day I may take the time to write out another story about, "What the boy saw after he got through the lines to the Confederacy," you may depend upon it, he saw sights. I was one of two or three in my regiment who could sing. Many a night, sitting around the Camp Fires, the weary hours were passed by singing Camp songs. Only two of these do I remember now.

"GOOBER PEAS"

was one of the most popular. It ran about this way:

"GOOBER PEAS."

Part Three

By W. B. Crumpton

To California and Back after a Lapse of Forty Years

Introduction

IN HISTORY few things are of greater interest than biography and in biography few things are of greater interest than travel. A good strong man who has covered much of the surface of the earth, with his eyes and ears open, and tells of it intelligently and charmingly to others is a real benefactor to his friends.

Every acquaintance of the author of this volume will be grateful for what he has written herein. He needs no introduction and it is almost wholly formal even to call his name. Who in Alabama does not know him, and among us all, whose life has not been touched to some extent by the influence of his? The observant reader will recognize at once the well known style, the vein of seriousness and the vein of pleasantry running side by side, and the high, distinctive purpose. The author has theories, as any one can see, elevated and generous theories, but here above all else is the practical man, the man of affairs, taking life as it comes, with its ups and downs, entering into its very currents, becoming of it a part, laying his hand upon it and utilizing it for the glory of God and the good of his fellow-men.

In these letters the youthful reader will find interest and entertainment as he looks through anticipation at the real problems of life; the person in middle years will discover confirmation for his strength and hope as he actually struggles with these problems, while many sentiments will minister comfort and peace to him who is in the afternoon of life and ere long expects to look out into the winter of age.

CHARLES A. STAKELY.

Montgomery, Ala.

Preface to Letters of the Second Trip

It has been a number of years since these letters appeared in the Alabama Baptist. As I have traveled, many have been the kind words said to me about them. Parents have expressed the wish that I put them in book form so that their children could read them. Some old people and the "shut-ins," who by reason of their age or affliction can never hope to travel, have expressed the same wish. In the hope that its reading may entertain, instruct and encourage, I send the little booklet out.—

W. B. C.