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Title: The Secret Service, the Field, the Dungeon, and the Escape

Author: Albert D. Richardson

Release date: February 10, 2014 [eBook #44865]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Martin Mayer and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECRET SERVICE, THE FIELD, THE DUNGEON, AND THE ESCAPE ***

The transcribers' notes follow the text.

Albert D. Richardson Albert D. Richardson

Photo by Brady.
Engd by Geo E Perine N.Y.

Albert D. Richardson

Click for larger image.

THE

SECRET SERVICE,

THE FIELD, THE DUNGEON,

AND

THE ESCAPE.

"Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,
 Of moving accidents, by flood and field;
 Of hairbreadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach;
 Of being taken by the insolent foe,
 And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence."

Othello.



BY

ALBERT D. RICHARDSON,

TRIBUNE CORRESPONDENT.


Hartford, Conn.,

AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY.

JONES BROS. & CO., PHILADELPHIA, PA., AND CINCINNATI, OHIO.

R. C. TREAT, CHICAGO, ILL.

1865.

Entered according to an Act of Congress, in the year 1865,
Albert D. Richardson,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the District
of Connecticut.

TO

Her Memory

WHO WAS NEAREST AND DEAREST,

WHOSE LIFE WAS FULL OF BEAUTY AND OF PROMISE,

THIS VOLUME

IS TENDERLY INSCRIBED.

List of Illustrations.


CONTENTS.

A GROUP OF ARMY CORRESPONDENTS A GROUP OF ARMY CORRESPONDENTS

Engd. by Geo. E. Perine, N.Y.

RICHARD T. COLBURN, "NEW YORK WORLD". CHARLES C. COFFIN, "CARLETON" - "BOSTON JOURNAL". WILLIAM E. DAVIS, "CINCINNATI GAZETTE". JUNIUS H. BROWNE, "NEW YORK TRIBUNE". L. L. CROUNSE, "NEW YORK TIMES". W. D. BICKHAM, "CINCINNATI COMMERCIAL". THOMAS W. KNOX, "NEW YORK HERALD". A GROUP OF ARMY CORRESPONDENTS.

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THE FIELD, THE DUNGEON, AND THE ESCAPE.

I.
THE SECRET SERVICE.

CHAPTER I.

I will go on the slightest errand now to the antipodes that you can desire to send me on.

Much Ado about Nothing.

Early in 1861, I felt a strong desire to look at the Secession movement for myself; to learn, by personal observation, whether it sprang from the people or not; what the Revolutionists wanted, what they hoped, and what they feared.

But the southern climate, never propitious to the longevity of Abolitionists, was now unfavorable to the health of every northerner, no matter how strong his political constitution. I felt the danger of being recognized; for several years of roving journalism, and a good deal of political speaking on the frontier, had made my face familiar to persons whom I did not remember at all, and given me that large and motley acquaintance which every half-public life necessitates.

Moreover, I had passed through the Kansas struggle; and many former shining lights of Border Ruffianism were now, with perfect fitness, lurid torches in the early bonfires of Secession. I did not care to meet their eyes, for I could not remember a single man of them all who would be likely to love me, either wisely or too well. But the newspaper instinct was strong within me, and the journalist who deliberates is lost. My hesitancy resulted in writing for a roving commission to represent The Tribune in the Southwest.

The Managing Editor.

A few days after, I found the Managing Editor in his office, going through the great pile of letters the morning mail had brought him, with the wonderful rapidity which quick intuition, long experience, and natural fitness for that most delicate and onerous position alone can give. For the modern newspaper is a sort of intellectual iron-clad, upon which, while the Editorial Captain makes out the reports to his chief, the public, and entertains the guests in his elegant cabin, the leading column, and receives the credit for every broadside of type and every paper bullet of the brain poured into the enemy,—back out of sight is an Executive Officer, with little popular fame, who keeps the ship all right from hold to maintop, looks to every detail with sleepless vigilance, and whose life is a daily miracle of hard work.

The Manager went through his mail, I think, at the rate of one letter per minute. He made final disposition of each when it came into his hand; acting upon the great truth, that if he laid one aside for future consideration, there would soon be a series of strata upon his groaning desk, which no mental geologist could fathom or classify. Some were ruthlessly thrown into the waste-basket. Others, with a lightning pencil-stroke, to indicate the type and style of printing, were placed on the pile for the composing-room. A few great packages of manuscript were re-enclosed in envelopes for the mail, with a three-line note, which, while I did not read, I knew must run like this:—

"My Dear Sir—Your article has unquestionable merit; but by the imperative pressure of important news upon our columns, we are very reluctantly compelled," etc.

Preliminary Instructions.

There was that quick, educated instinct, which reads the whole from a very small part, taking in a line here and a key-word there. Two or three glances appeared to decide the fate of each; yet the reader was not wholly absorbed, for all the while he kept up a running conversation:

"I received your letter. Are you going to New Orleans?"

"Not unless you send me."

"I suppose you know it is rather precarious business?"

"O, yes."

"Two of our correspondents have come home within the last week, after narrow escapes. We have six still in the South; and it would not surprise me, this very hour, to receive a telegram announcing the imprisonment or death of any one of them."

"I have thought about all that, and decided."

"Then we shall be very glad to have you go."

"When may I start?"

"To-day, if you like."

"What field shall I occupy?"

"As large a one as you please. Go and remain just where you think best."

"How long shall I stay?"

"While the excitement lasts, if possible. Do you know how long you will stay? You will be back here some fine morning in just about two weeks."

"Wait and see."

Pondering upon the line of conduct best for the journey, I remembered the injunction of the immortal Pickwick: "It is always best on these occasions to do what the mob do!" "But," suggested Mr. Snodgrass, "suppose there are two mobs?" "Shout with the largest," replied Mr. Pickwick. Volumes could not say more. Upon this plan I determined to act—concealing my occupation, political views, and place of residence. It is not pleasant to wear a padlock upon one's tongue, for weeks, nor to adopt a course of systematic duplicity; but personal convenience and safety rendered it an inexorable necessity.