THE plan of our work admits of only one more chapter on the subject of running the land blockade, though, if space permitted, the entire volume might be filled with incidents connected with this one service. This chapter, therefore, must embrace a variety of incidents.
On one of the trips, Colonel Abercrombie conducted Mr. Charles R. Dangerfield from Washington to Richmond, and return. Mr. Dangerfield was a large manufacturer, or the agent of manufacturers, of English arms, accoutrements, etc., and his object in visiting Richmond was to make contracts with the Confederacy in exchange for cotton. Nothing of special note occurred on the way to Richmond, except that, while lying at the negro hut all day, two men came to the door, and asked "Aunt Jemima" if Colonel Abercrombie was not there? This Mr. Dangerfield heard, and it frightened him almost out of his wits. "Now Grant's men have us!" said he, and, springing up from where he lay, he was ready to surrender at once; but the military experience of the Colonel made him cooler and more courageous than the Englishman, and he, instead of surrendering, was getting ready to sell his life as dearly as possible, when "Aunt Jemima" called out, "All's right, honey, all's right! dese be your guides, Mas'er Colonel; all's right!" Had a ten-thousand ton weight been lifted from Mr. Dangerfield's breast, he could not have felt more relieved. He was ready to dance a hornpipe then and there, and would have done it, had he not been too old, fat, and clumsy for such a youthful sport. From Richmond, Mr. Dangerfield visited all the larger cities, and all the cotton-storing places of the Confederacy. On his return to Richmond he made contracts with the government to his entire satisfaction, and in due time returned to Washington, New York, and thence to London.
At another time the Colonel conducted another English manufacturer, Mr. Francis Willis, across the lines and back. He, like Mr. Dangerfield, visited the principal points in the Confederacy, and, on his return to Richmond, made contracts to furnish arms, accoutrements, saddles, clothing, etc., in exchange for cotton.
There were others who were passengers on this line, at various times; but as their object was to see friends or attend to domestic affairs, and had no direct connection with the war, we think it unnecessary to particularize them.
On one of the trips Colonel Abercrombie was arrested as a spy—though his duties, and those of Colonel Killgore's, were as foreign to those of a spy as one thing can be foreign to another—and as there were incidents connected with the arrest and escape never heretofore known, we will now relate them.
The Colonel was on his way from Richmond to Washington. Had reached Great Falls in safety, and was about half way between that point and Georgetown, when a sentinel suddenly called, "Halt! stand, or I'll fire." The Colonel, who was in the disguise of a farmer, tried to explain to the sentinel that he was a farmer, living near Georgetown; that he had been up to Garrett & Morse's store to see a friend, and was now on his way back; that he was an uncompromising "Union man," etc., etc.; but the sentinel's only reply was that his orders were to halt and detain any one who attempted to pass his post, and that the Colonel must stand precisely where halted until the corporal came around, and not move a step forward or backward, or he would fire upon him. The Colonel saw that he had a sentinel to deal with who could not be either cajoled or bribed, and that he could do nothing else than await the coming of the corporal, and then try his arts upon him. Could he have got near the sentinel, he would have disarmed him and escaped, but this was impossible. When the corporal came around to relieve the guard the Colonel told him the same story he had told the sentinel; but he seemed to doubt the story, and told the Colonel he must "fall in" and accompany them to the Captain's headquarters, about a half-mile distant. On reaching there the Colonel repeated the same old story, to all of which the Captain listened attentively and respectfully. The Captain had just eaten his supper, and, learning from the Colonel that he had not yet had his, asked him to take a seat at the table and help himself. While the Colonel was eating, the Captain narrowly observed him, and pretty soon cried out, "Yes! I see you are a farmer from the way you handle your knife and fork! A pretty farmer you are, to be sure!" The Colonel was nonplussed for a moment and could make no reply; but after awhile managed to say that he "could n't see why a farmer could not handle a knife and fork just as well as anybody else." He was caught, fairly caught, by his "society manners," and the more he talked, the better satisfied the Captain became that he was not a farmer, and might be a spy. He was accordingly sent, that same night, to the headquarters of the Eleventh Pennsylvania regiment, and there put in the guard-house. Next morning the colonel of this regiment sent him to General Wilson's headquarters, near by, who, after some questions, sent him back to the guard-house. The next night Colonel Abercrombie made an attempt to escape, and nearly succeeded. This being reported to General Wilson, he ordered a heavy ball and chain to be strongly riveted to the Colonel's leg. Matters now began to look desperate; for, while the Colonel had no fear of being condemned as a spy, he was ready to do anything, rather than be brought before a court-martial and recognized. He bethought himself of some medicine he always carried with him. Of this he took a dose, and soon had a most violent diarrhoea. He now could ask, and did ask, to be sent to a hospital, and next day was sent to the Lincoln Hospital, near Georgetown. It changed that on the next couch to his in the hospital lay a Confederate captain, named Lawrence Norton, of Georgia. The two soon became acquainted. The Colonel told the Captain that if by any means the ball and chain could be taken from his leg, he could escape from the hospital. The Captain told his wife this when she visited him next day; the wife became immediately interested, and soon procured and brought to her husband a watch-spring file; the Captain that same night so filed the clasp, which held the ball and chain to the Colonel's ankle, that it could be slipped off at any moment. The Colonel watched the surgeon when he came into the hospital next day, and managed to slip a pass from the surgeon's overcoat pocket while it lay upon a stand near his bed. With this pass and two empty bottles in his hand, he rushed by the sentinel at the door, on the plea that he was in great haste to bring medicines which the doctor had just sent him after. Once outside the building, he sprang over a cemetery fence, and from thenceforth allowed no grass to grow under his feet until he was safe at Ben Beveridge's hotel. Here, of course, there was great rejoicing at the Colonel's wonderful escape; but, fearing pursuit, it was thought best that the Colonel should proceed at once to Baltimore, and from thence to Philadelphia. It was deemed best, too, that he should not start from the Washington depot, lest detectives be on the watch there for him. Accordingly, Ben ordered up his own spanking team of bays, and before daybreak had the Colonel at the Bladensburg station, where he took the first train that came along for Baltimore. Fearing, however, to go into the Baltimore depot, lest detectives might be there on the watch for him, the Colonel got off the train at the Relay House, and gave a man a twenty-dollar gold piece to drive him into Baltimore, a distance of about thirteen miles. He went direct to the Fountain Hotel, in Light Street, where he remained carefully concealed for several days, only seeing Mr. Thomas, Mr. Wilson, and such others as he knew to be firm friends of the Southern cause. Then he went to Philadelphia and remained at Dr. Howell's for about two weeks.
Meanwhile the newspapers of Washington and of the whole country were publishing accounts about the "wonderful escape of a rebel spy," and all sorts of guesses were made as to who he was, how he had managed to escape, who had helped him, where he had gone, etc., etc. Of course, the whole of Baker's national detective force and all the police and detective forces of New York, Philadelphia, and of every other Northern city, were specially charged to search out, arrest, and bring to speedy justice this "desperate rebel spy;" but not one of them all ever succeeded in arresting, nor even in ascertaining who this "rebel spy" was; and not until this shall appear in print will the world at large ever know who the arrested party was, how he managed his escape, or what became of him after his escape.
There was another incident connected with the running of the land blockade which, though hardly sufficient for an entire chapter, is too important and too interesting to allow to pass without notice: for not until this is published will it ever be known outside of some half-dozen persons. The incident was as follows:
On one of his blockade-running visits to Washington, Colonel Abercrombie learned that Senator Andrew Johnson, as it then was (though afterwards Vice-President, and still afterwards President of the United States), had rooms at Beveridge's Hotel, the very place that he was making his headquarters when in Washington. Knowing the Senator to be a fierce, uncompromising Union man, the news of his close proximity at first alarmed the Colonel; but, upon reflection, he remembered that Mrs. Johnson and his mother had long been on the most intimate terms,—that the Senator knew him personally, and had always treated him with the utmost kindness,—that he was a man of generous heart, and even though he should learn of his being there, the danger of his interfering with him was next to nothing. He therefore decided to stand his ground and take the chances.
As proximity to danger is always exciting, and, after a time, becomes attractive, so in this case, what at first seemed alarming, after a time became so attractive that the Colonel had a longing desire to see and converse with his old friend, Andrew Johnson. He communicated this desire to his friend and co-associate in the blockade-running business, Ben Beveridge, and asked him what he thought of it. Ben, at first, thought it would not do at all; but, like the Colonel, after thinking over the matter some time, concluded that it would be a capital joke, and advised the Colonel to try it.
The Colonel was disguised—so disguised, indeed, that even his own sister would not have known him, had she met him in the street—and the arrangement was, that Ben should await in the entry, near the Senator's chamber-door, while the Colonel went in to talk with him; and that, if the Senator did not receive him kindly, or if he showed any disposition to arrest him, the Colonel should at once quit the room, and Ben would help him to escape.
Everything thus understood, the Colonel went to the Senator's door and knocked gently. A deep, stentorian voice replied, "Come in but the Colonel pretended not to hear this, and knocked again, as he wanted the Senator to come to and open the door, that he might at once step within the room, whether the Senator invited him to do so or not. The second knock brought the Senator to the door, which he opened far enough to face his visitor, when he said:
"How do you do, sir?"
The Colonel replied, and, while replying, stepped within the room, when the Senator shut the door, and invited his visitor to take a seat. The Colonel did not sit down, but, taking hold of the back of the chair offered him, he said to Mr. Johnson:
"You seem not to know me, Mr. Senator. When did you leave Greenville? and where is Mrs. Johnson and Bob?"
This confused the Senator more than ever, as the visitor seemed to be familiar with his wife and son, as well as with himself, and yet he could not recollect to have ever seen him before.
"Well, no," replied the Senator, "I really cannot place you, or call your name. By jingo! who are you, any way?"
"I guess you don't want to know me," replied the Colonel, "and I had better be going."
"Oh, no, sir; oh, no," replied Mr. Johnson; "sit down! sit down! When did you come from Greenville? But really, sir, I cannot recall your name—I cannot."
The Colonel observed the Senator's confusion, and so enjoyed the joke that it was some time before he would let himself be known. Then, suddenly tearing the false whiskers from his face and putting on a natural expression, he stood revealed before the Senator.
"My God! is this you, Ralph?" was all that Mr. Johnson could say for some moments; and then added, "Why, Ralph, ain't you in the rebel service?"
"Well, what if I am?" replied the Colonel; "you don't propose to arrest me, do you?"
"No, no; but, by jingo! what under heavens brought you here?" said the Senator; and, going to the door, locked it before the Colonel had time to reply. "Sit down! sit down!" he added, "and tell me all about it. What under heavens could have brought you here, or induced you to call upon me?"
The Colonel then took a seat and explained to Mr. Johnson why he was there, the nature of his business, and that he had only called upon him as a good joke, and to renew an old acquaintance; to all of which the Senator listened attentively, though trembling meanwhile from excitement. When the Colonel had finished, Mr. Johnson sprang from his chair, walked hurriedly across the room two or three times, went to the front windows and pulled down the shades, and then, turning to the Colonel, said:
"Does anybody know that you are here with me?" Just then Mr. Johnson heard a tittering in the entryway, and, turning to the Colonel, asked him if he had any companions waiting outside. The Colonel replied, that he thought it might be Ben, as he alone knew of his visit. Immediately Mr. Johnson stepped to the door, and, seeing Ben, asked him to step in. Ben did so, and now the Senator became more in a quandary than ever. He scolded both Ben and the Colonel pretty severely, and told them they did not appreciate the awkward position in which they were placing him; that, if the Colonel's visit to him were known, it would, under the circumstances, compromise him in a most serious manner. Ben tried to soothe the Senator by telling him that the Colonel's call upon him was only intended as a joke; that it could never be known outside of their three selves; and that it should never be repeated, if annoying to him. The Senator replied, that while he was glad, personally, to see Ralph, yet the fact that he was known to be an officer in the rebel army, and in his business of blockade-running might by some be regarded as a spy, made it doubly awkward for him, and, if it were known to the Senate, might cost him his seat, as well as his reputation as a consistent Union man; that nearly every one would say that he ought to have had the Colonel arrested and detained, at least as a prisoner-of-war, if not as a spy; and that, in holding communication with him without attempting his arrest, he made himself a party to his crime, whether as a rebel to the government or as a spy. The more the Senator talked about it, the graver he became over it, until the Colonel and Ben saw that what had been intended as a comedy might prove a serious tragedy with all concerned, and that the sooner they got out of the way the better. Before leaving, the Senator exacted from each a solemn promise that they would not repeat the joke under any possible circumstances.
There is no kind of doubt that Senator Johnson felt greatly troubled at receiving such a visit from an officer in the Confederate service, and in learning that his landlady's son, Ben, was just as much of a rebel at heart as the Colonel himself. He knew, too, that his official duty as a United States Senator was to have both of these men arrested, tried, and, if possible, convicted, while his heart prompted to a course directly the contrary. He had long known, and had high regard for, the mothers of both; the men he had known from childhood upward, and always liked them, as boys, as young men, as men in active life, and he would as soon have thought of having his own son, "Bob," arrested as either of these, and yet his duty plainly pointed in that direction. It was a conflict between his head and his heart, in which his heart gained the mastery.
That the Senator did not hold any ill-will against the Colonel or against Ben for this wild prank of theirs against his Senatorial and official dignity is proven from the fact that he still continued to board with Ben's mother at the "Washington House," and within two years after he became President he appointed the Colonel as one of three commissioners to reopen and establish mail-routes throughout the late Confederate States.
IN General L. C. Baker's "History of the United States Secret Service," four chapters are devoted to the subject of bounty-jumpers. In these chapters the startling facts are disclosed that on investigation, it was found that only one in four of the enlisted men reached the front that, in some instances, the entire quota of a township was filled with the names of bounty-jumpers, not one of whom ever really enlisted or went to the front; that desertions from the army became so common that to "even attempt to show, by actual figures, the number would be impossible;" that "to aid the soldier to desert was deemed to be as much the legitimate business and calling of the professional bounty broker as to enlist him;" that in one investigation it was shown, "out of 5,284 enlisted, only 2,083 actually entered the service;" that out of this number—less than one-half who really enlisted—not more than three-fourths ever reached the front, and of these probably one-fourth deserted and returned to the States, to reënlist and receive bounty again; that of one hundred and "eighty-three who enlisted in one day at Hoboken and were credited to the quota of Jersey City, every one was a bounty-jumper;" that case after case came to light where a single bounty-jumper had enlisted three times, and received three separate bounties, in one day, and that even gipsy-like gangs were organized, who travelled from city to city, enlisting such of their number as they could, assisting such as enlisted to escape, and then on to the next city or recruiting station to repeat the same thing. Of one such gang it is related that "in a trip of thirty-two days their total profits amounted to $32,000."
It is also a matter of record that while skirmishes and battles were in progress, Union soldiers in the front ranks, and especially if sent forward as skirmishers, would sometimes throw down their muskets and run over to the enemy; and it not unfrequently happened that sentinels on the outposts were missing and never heard of more, or, if heard of, it would be found they had gone within the Confederate lines and surrendered.
These matters have all been told, and well told, by other historians, but not until these "Secrets of the Rebellion" have been published will it be generally known what became of those who thus threw down their arms, and of those who thus abandoned their posts, to go over to the enemy, and that to encourage bounty-jumping in the North, and thereby promote desertions from the Union army, became, after August, 1863, a part of the masterly diplomacy or tactics adopted by the Confederate Government.
Of the bounty-jumpers who first tried the game of going over to the enemy, under the belief that they would soon be exchanged or paroled, and thus have opportunities for procuring additional bounties, quite a number were shot as spies. The "dead-board," as it was called, of General Lee's army, had a summary way of dealing with all cases which they deemed of a questionable character. A statement from the person making the arrest; where found, and under what circumstances; a few questions to the accused; a consultation of ten minutes among the seven officers who composed the board; sentence; and on the day following, and sometimes on the same day, the accused would be seen sitting on an empty coffin, on his way to execution.
But in August, 1863, a new thought crossed the brain of the Confederate authorities. They then concluded that, instead of shooting bounty-jumpers as spies, they could make them serviceable to the Confederate cause by using them as stool-pigeons, and like as stool-pigeons are used to draw whole flocks into the net, so these could be used to corrupt, and bring thousands into the Confederate lines. In pursuance of this new idea, five large tobacco warehouses, on Carey Street, each three stories high, directly opposite "Castle Thunder," in Richmond, were converted into a prison, and called "Castle Lightning." In this prison, bounty-jumpers alone were put, and the rations furnished them were doubly as good as the rations furnished the prisoners in other prisons. Whenever an exchange of prisoners was possible, those in Castle Lightning were always given the preference, and, when about to leave, they were told that they should take from the Yankees as many bounties as they possibly could; that, if again sent to the front, they should desert, and bring as many others along with them as possible; that they would always be well treated, and given the best rations the Confederacy could afford; that they would be exchanged, or otherwise sent back to their homes, at the first opportunity; and that to secure safety and good treatment, when coming into the Confederate lines, they should cry out, "Bounty-jumper! Bounty-jumper!" This was told them not only when about to leave, but again, and again, and again during their stay, and the superior treatment they received while prisoners, assured them that the promises made would all be fulfilled.
Within a few weeks after the return of the first batch of these bounty-jumpers to the North, the effect of the new policy began to show itself, and it steadily increased from that time onward. Hardly a day, and sometimes several times in a day, squads of Union prisoners arrived in Richmond, and were marched to Castle Lightning, who had voluntarily come within the lines, and claimed to be bounty-jumpers. Nor was there scarcely a day in which squads of these same men might not be seen leaving the prison, on their way to be exchanged, or otherwise sent back to the Union army, or direct to their homes. Like leaven, its tendency was to leaven the whole lump, as the authorities of the Confederacy believed would be the case when they adopted the policy. One such man in a company would, in time, taint the whole company; ten such men in a regiment would, in time, taint the whole regiment. When a battle is progressing, a single regiment, yea, a single company, going over to the enemy will sometimes so change the tide of battle that what seemed an assured victory, will prove a most disastrous defeat.
Of course it is not known, never can be known, how many millions of dollars, nor how many thousands of lives the adoption of this policy by the South cost the North; nor can the South ever know the amount of advantage which they derived from adopting the policy; but that it was a new mode of warfare, and showed great shrewdness on the part of those who conceived and carried out the project, all will agree in admitting.
Having thus shown how the Confederate authorities used Union prisoners to benefit their own cause, we will next proceed to state some additional facts as to the abuse received by other Union prisoners. The facts which we now purpose to state are not from hearsay, not from one-sided newspapers, nor from partisan historians, but directly from the lips of one who had occasion to visit Confederate prisoners frequently during the war, whose whole soul was in, and with, the Confederate cause, and who could not be, and would not be, by any who knew him, accused of sympathy with the "Yankees," as he usually styles Union soldiers when speaking of them. We have not space to write of all, and will limit our remarks to only four of the many places throughout the Confederate States at which Union prisoners were confined.
First.—"Libby Prison." This was located in Richmond, and had been a tobacco warehouse previous to its use as a prison. It was an immense brick building, three stories high, rough floors, no plastering, a great number of windows, no fire-places, and no means for heating other than for the office on the first floor. In this, hundreds of Union prisoners were thrust and kept for weeks, months, years—some with scarcely enough clothing left to cover their nakedness, and with no chance for a change; many without a blanket, even in the coldest winter weather; all without beds, or mattress, or anything but the hard floor to lie upon. Their ordinary daily ration consisted of a loaf made from one pint of corn-meal and one pint of rice soup. Occasionally, though rarely, they would have bread made from wheat flour and soup made from meat and bones. Once in a great while they were served with meat, but the quantity served to each man was so small that it could be taken at a mouthful. Our informant says he knows of a certainty that some actually starved to death—that others actually froze to death—that many were wantonly shot while thoughtlessly looking out of the windows, by sentinels on the sidewalks, who had positive orders from Lieutenant Turner, the officer in command of Libby, to shoot any "d———d Yankee" whose head might be seen at the window-bars; and that hundreds, yea, thousands, died from sickness brought upon them by the privations from which they suffered. We could give other details, but they are too horrible to write, and would be too sickening to read.
Second.—"Castle Thunder." All that we have said of "Libby" will apply equally well to this prison, except that in some cases the cruelty of treatment might be multiplied by two, and in some instances by three. Here our informant saw prisoners with ball and chain to their legs, and handcuffed together; chanced to be in the room when the brains of one of the prisoners were spattered against the wall, by a ball from the musket in the hands of a sentinel on the pavement two stories below, and only because the prisoner had dared to look out at a window; learned of many like cases which occurred before and after that visit; nor has he any doubt that scores were there inhumanly shot, because of orders from the officer in command, Captain Alexander. At least one Union prisoner, a Captain Dayton, was hung on the charge of being a spy. In this prison, dogs that chanced to stray in were seized, killed, and eaten; and rat-meat was regarded as a dainty dish.
Third.—Salisbury, N. C., was a large enclosure within a high board fence, on the outside of which was a walk for sentinels, and within which was the "dead-line," about thirty feet from the fence, to cross which meant instant death to any prisoner. The "sinks" for the camp were located on this "dead-line," and at one of his visits our informant saw the dead body of a prisoner lying in one of the "sinks," who had been shot by a sentinel in the afternoon of the day before while sitting on the pole at the "sink." The sentinel, when asked why he had shot the prisoner, replied that he thought he was trying to come over the dead-line and therefore shot him. At this same visit our informant saw sentinels, with guns on their shoulders, pacing their rounds on the outside of this fence, who were not over twelve years of age, and the one who had shot the prisoner at the "sink" was scarcely over this age. The whole regiment on guard at that camp, at that time, was made up of boys from twelve to sixteen years of age, and of very old men—not one of all of whom was fit for a soldier. The officer in command, a Major Gee, was himself a brute, and no more fit to have the care of human beings than a hyena would be to be placed in charge of a sheepfold. Here, as at Libby and Castle Thunder, the usual ration was a loaf made from one pint of corn-meal, each day, and occasionally a small bit of meat. For shelter most of them had to burrow for themselves, like rabbits, in holes under ground; and so poorly were they off for clothing and shoes, that our informant saw scores of men standing about the doors of hospitals, waiting for the clothing and shoes of those who might die within. Every morning carts came around to gather up the dead, to take them without the camp and throw in trenches.
Fourth.—Andersonville, Georgia. This was an enclosure of about twenty-five acres, surrounded by a high stockade, and by earthworks mounted with cannon. One end of the enclosure was a swamp, through which crept a sluggish, muddy stream, and this was the only water to which the prisoners had access. To add to the filthiness and consequent unhealthfulness of this water, a Confederate camp was located upon it, above the point where the stream entered the stockade. The few buildings within the enclosure were scarcely enough for hospital purposes, and here, as at Salisbury, the prisoners had to burrow in the earth for shelter. Even in the coldest of weather thousands had no blankets, nor scarcely clothing enough to cover their nakedness. Their ordinary ration here, as at the other places named, was a loaf made from one pint of corn-meal each day, and when, as occasionally they did, receive anything beyond this, it was regarded as a rare treat. The shooting of men on the "dead-line" was almost of daily occurrence.
Indeed, many of the prisoners became so crazed from suffering that they sought death in this way. General Winder was commander of the camp, and under him was the Captain Wirz who was tried, convicted, and hung at Washington near the close of the war. Thousands at the South, as well as at the North, believed then, and believe still, that General Winder, instead of his subordinate officer, should have stood beneath the hangman's noose. Undoubtedly he could have corrected these terrible wrongs had he tried. That he did not try is proof positive that he did not care. The world at large always gives to commanders the chief credit of all done by their subordinates, and, on the same principle, holds them responsible for all that their subordinates fail to do or do wrongfully. Had General Winder desired his prisoners to have had better treatment, neither Captain Wirz, nor any other of his subordinates, would have treated them as they did. How much they suffered none will ever know. The horrible things related in the foregoing pages, and the thousands of other terrible things related by others who have written the history of the Rebellion, are but as drops to the ocean, as sands to the sea-shore, to all that occurred during the war. Dark deeds seek to hide themselves always, and while the "secrets" of this volume, and a few-others, have oozed out since the war, others doubtless quite as bad have never yet, and probably never will, see the light of day. And possibly it is best so. There are some deeds that so harrow up one's feelings that, if related, they would, as said by Hamlet's ghost:
"Freeze the young blood;
Make the two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres;
The knotted and combined locks to part,
And each particular hair to stand on end
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine."
Or, after hearing them, make us to cry out with Hamlet (slightly varied)
"O all you host of heaven! O earth! what else?
And shall I couple hell? O fie! Hold, hold my heart;
And you, my sinews, grow not instant old,
But bear me stiffly up!—Remember them?
Yea, from the table of my memory
'I'll wipe away all trivial records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pleasures past,
That youth and observation copied there,
And these base deeds alone, alone shall live
'Within the book and volume of my brain
'Unmixed with baser matter;
And on my tablets I will set it down
That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain!"
We could ourself add more, much more, from what our informant told us; but our heart sickens over such recitals, and our readers, we are sure, have had quite enough of it.
The first question, and the most natural question for any one to ask, after reading the terrible atrocities just recited, would be, Who was or is accountable for all this suffering?
The gentleman from whose lips we gathered most of the foregoing facts had opportunities of learning the individual sentiments of President Davis upon this subject, as upon many others, quite as well, perhaps, as any man within the lines of the Confederacy, and he assured us that Mr. Davis regretted, as much as any man could regret, the sufferings of Union prisoners, and that, whenever reports of their ill-treatment came to his ears, he at once gave them attention. That, time and again, Mr. Davis appointed gentlemen of high character to visit the prison-places we have named, and report to him any and all abuses of which they might learn; that, again and again, he cautioned, reprimanded, and in some cases re moved, officers charged with cruelty to Union prisoners; and that he did whatever it was possible for him to do to mitigate their sufferings. In view of the high personal character which Mr. Davis bore before he became President of the Confederacy, and, of the consistent Christian character he has since borne, it is to be hoped that this is a correct interpretation of his sentiments with reference to Union prisoners. It would almost make one lose faith in humanity were it otherwise.
If President Davis was not responsible, the next most natural question would be, Who is? and to this answers would differ with almost every one who might attempt to make reply. While the outrages were being perpetrated, the people of the North generally held Mr. Davis responsible for all of them, on the principle heretofore stated; but towards the close of the war, and during the ten years following the war, public opinion greatly changed, until few, if any, held him longer responsible; and now there are not probably ten men in the whole United States, of such as know anything of the facts, who hold him personally responsible for these outrages.
Our informant thought the responsibility lay most, if not wholly, with the officers in immediate command of these prisons and camps. That, while food was undoubtedly scarce in the Confederacy, still he believed the prisoners did not get all that the government allowed and paid for; that while charged only with the safe-keeping of the prisoners, the officers in command went far beyond this, and made security a pretext for severity; that they were malicious, vindictive, devilish, and, while dressed in a "little brief authority," allowed these traits of their own characters to have full play in torturing those committed to their keeping. If this, or half of this, be true, God have pity on their souls when they stand, as all must, before Christ's judgment-seat!
THE remark is attributed to General Grant that he had "less dread of the whole of General Lee's army than of Colonel Moseby's cavalry." To one unacquainted with the irregular, predatory mode of warfare of these bands, such a remark, from such a source, would seem impossible; but when it is known that cunning, deception, downright lying, and any amount of cruelty needed to their ends, were principles and practices which they regarded as fair; that they did not hold themselves amenable to army regulations, nor to the law of nations, but were in all cases a "law unto themselves," then the wonder ceases, and we can understand that even so fearless and so wise a general as Grant might have made just such a remark.
During the war the newspapers of the whole country had considerable to say about Moseby and his marauding band; and, since the war, all who have written histories have had more or less to say about him; and yet not the one-hundredth part of his depredations have ever been recorded, nor is there one in a thousand, either North or South, who know how his band was organized, how they operated, or what were the results, except in a few cases, of their operations. With our army experience of nearly three years, and with all our reading of newspapers and histories, we admit to have known nothing, or next to nothing, of the plan on which his band was organized, of the principles on which they operated, and of the terrible results of those operations until quite recently. It chanced, not long since, that we met a gentleman who was an officer in the Confederate army during nearly the whole of the war, who was personally acquainted with Colonel Moseby and many of his men, and who had from their own lips carefully detailed accounts of many of their daring exploits, at a time when they gloried in them and delighted to tell them to their friends; and whose personal relations with President Davis, Adjutant-General Cooper, and others gave him the opportunity of knowing what was going on behind the scenes, as well as upon the stage. From him we gathered most of the following facts, and as many of them have never been published before, we are sure they will be of great interest, as showing another phase of the acts going on behind the scenes while the armies of the Union and of the Confederacy were fighting their battles on the public stage, with all the world as spectators.
It will be recollected that in the beginning of the Confederate government troops were called out by proclamation of the President, the same as at the North. But that, after a time, as the war progressed and volunteering became less and less, conscription had to be resorted to, and, finally, that every man at all able to bear arms was called into the service.
Early in the war Colonel Moseby proposed to the Confederate War Department to raise a company for "special and independent service," meaning guerilla service, though of course he did not use a word so objectionable in making the application. He was then a practising lawyer in a small town in Western Virginia, and wanted to keep up his own dignity as well as that of his profession. The War Department granted his request, and in a little while his company was full. Finding others eager to join him, as the young men of his own and of adjoining counties much preferred to join an "independent" command than go into the Confederate army (and they soon found they must do one or the other), he next proposed to the War Department to raise a regiment on the same basis. This, too, was granted him, and in due time he had about fifteen hundred men on his muster-rolls, divided up into companies, each with its captain, lieutenants, sergeants, etc., many of whom were not known to the general public, nor scarcely beyond their immediate friends and relatives. All his officers and all his men lived at their homes, on their farms, in their offices, in their stores, in their workshops, pursuing their usual vocations; but each was careful to carry, concealed about his person, a certificate showing that he belonged to Colonel Moseby's regiment of "independent" cavalry, so that if called upon by a conscripting officer he could at once show that he was already in the service. The regiment was called "independent," and was really so, for the reason that it was attached to no brigade, division, or corps, but operated and cooperated with other commands only as chance happened to throw them together. His orders came from the President, or the War Department, through Adjutant-General Cooper, who directed him whom to obey as his superior officer for the time being, and to whom to report at any time for special duty. Many, a great many, of his acts, however, were done purely on his own volition, on his own responsibility, and without orders from any superior officer, nor were these acts always approved by those at the seat of government. Two or three times he was summoned to Richmond to answer complaints lodged against him; but such was the influence he exerted with members of the Confederate Congress, through members of his regiment, many of whom were the sons or near relatives of some of the most wealthy and most influential families of Virginia, that each time he came off scot-free, and was worse after than before.
His ordinary manner of operating was as follows: His officers and men, as before stated, lived at home, and were only known as citizens, pursuing their ordinary vocations; and, for the last two years of the war, a considerable number, probably more than half, lived within the Union lines, and called themselves "Union" men. From and after the time when the Rapidan River became the line of the two armies this was especially so; and after that time nearly all his operations lay between the Rapidan and the Potomac, mostly in the counties of Loudon, Fauquier, Shenandoah, and Rockingham. Occasionally he would cross the Potomac into Maryland, and operate at points between Cumberland City and the Great Falls.
When from officers and members of his own regiment living within the Union lines, or from others, he would learn of the contemplated movements of certain supply-trains, of certain paymasters, of certain small squads on special duty, he would at once issue orders to enough of his men to meet him at a particular house, or a particular cross-roads, at ten or twelve o'clock of a particular night, fully armed, equipped, and mounted for the service in which they were about to engage. Sometimes the number ordered out would be ten, sometimes twenty, sometimes fifty, and sometimes a whole company or more, according to the force which they expected to meet and overcome. Only when ordered to join and cooperate with some general commanding officer, would he call out his whole available force. He had no fixed headquarters, but his officers and men always knew exactly where to communicate with him, as he always knew exactly where to find them; and when he issued an order it was speedily conveyed from lip to lip, and seldom failed to meet with the expected response. He and his men were all the while on the alert, and seldom failed to take prompt advantage of any opportunity that offered. His own men not unfrequently applied for (as farmers' sons living in the neighborhood) and obtained temporary employment as team-drivers, blacksmiths, farriers, etc., in the Union army, and in this way secured information in advance of every contemplated movement, whether of the army, of supplies, or of detachments on special service. As soon as such information was obtained, it was conveyed from lip to lip, until it reached the ears of Colonel Moseby. Then he would decide whether a raid was practicable or not; and if it was, the needed number of men were summoned to meet him at a certain place at a set time.
To get through the line of Union sentinels without alarming the whole Union army, he had numerous stratagems. Having men on both sides of the line, he knew the exact location of every post, just the hour at which each sentinel was placed and relieved, and the precise strength of the squad or company, and where located, from which each sentinel was detached. Where only a single sentinel needed to be removed, to allow him and his squad to pass in and out of the Union lines, he was stealthily pounced upon, disarmed, killed, or otherwise taken care of. If more than one needed removing, the same operation might be practised on two or more. Where a whole squad or company needed to be gobbled up, he had enough of his men to quietly surround them, and, at the blowing of a whistle or other signal, suddenly pounce upon and take them all prisoners, usually without the firing of a gun, or with scarcely a word spoken above a whisper. Secrecy, celerity, and "dead men tell no tales," were his maxims—and most fearfully did he put these maxims into practice. It would fill this entire volume to tell all the times; but the following instances, selected from the many, some of which have and some of which never have been told before, will fully corroborate all that we have heretofore said, and show the terrible character of the warfare carried on by this class of men behind the scenes, while the Union and Confederate armies were contending for the mastery in front of the scenes.
During the summer and fall of 1863, Moseby's guerillas were exceedingly active. Almost every night they had some enterprise on hand, large or small, and while most of them were of such a character as to excite but little attention and no alarm, yet now and then one would occur of so startling a nature, and of so villanous a character, as to arouse all who heard of it, and make every honest man wish that the perpetrators could be caught and hung higher than Haman. The first we purpose to relate was of this character, and, so far as we know, this will be its first publication in historic form, though well known at the time by everybody in the neighborhood, and by officers in both armies.
The position of Maryland during the war was exceedingly perplexing. Lying, as it does, midway between the North and the South, her soil was traversed by both armies, and her people were constantly subjected to annoyance, if not to danger, from both Union and Confederate troops. As a slaveholding State, the sympathies of her people were mostly with the Southern cause, and yet the business relations of many of her citizens with the people of the North, and her contiguity to Pennsylvania, had made many of her citizens strongly in favor of maintaining the Union. A considerable number of her citizens had joined the Confederate army; a considerable number had joined the Union army; while those who stayed at home endeavored to remain as nearly neutral as possible. To a Northern man or a Union soldier, they were all for the Union; to a Southern man or a Confederate soldier, they were all for Jefferson Davis and the Confederacy; to one who did not care a fig which side won, they were quite as indifferent as he dared be. Moseby and his midnight marauders seemed to have taken, for some cause, a special dislike to the Marylanders, and the first four instances we purpose to give occurred on that side of the Potomac.
Mr. B. (our informant had forgotten the name, though he had been at the place and was entirely familiar with the incident, having obtained it from the lips of one who was a participant)—Mr. B. was a quiet, inoffensive old man, who endeavored to live at peace with everybody, and who was probably as little of a partisan as any man in the State. He seldom, if ever, talked upon politics, rarely about the war, and, when upon either, was always careful to do it in such a way as not to offend his listener. He kept a small country store at a point where two roads crossed each other, and was as ready to exchange his coffee, sugar, or molasses, his calicoes, hardware, or queensware, for country produce or for money, with a Confederate as with a Union man, or with a Union man as with a Confederate, There was no village about his store, not even the usual accompaniments of a blacksmith- and wheelwright-shop.
Moseby had taken a dislike to this man. Why, it is not known, except it be that he sold his goods to Union men and Union soldiers, as well as to Confederates, when opportunity offered. So far as is known, the man had never given any personal offence to Moseby or his men, though they had several times visited his store, usually, if not always, in disguise; and we may here add, once for all, that when Moseby or his men were moving about within the Union lines on spying expeditions, they were always in disguise, and when they went to perpetrate a diabolical act, they always had their faces blackened, or were otherwise in mask.
On a dark night, or rather about two o'clock in the morning, in August, 1863, ten of Moseby's gang approached this store. One of the men was lifted up to, and crept in at, a window, and, going to the front door, unlocked and opened it, that some might enter while others remained on the outside as sentinels. Closing and locking the door, that there might be no escape of the inmates, they struck a light and then commenced a search for persons. They soon found the old man (the owner), two young men (his clerks or assistants), and a negro boy, all of whom had been asleep in the house adjoining, or in the second story of the store. As there were no women in the house, it is probable that he and his clerks had kept "bachelors' hall." Of course the proprietor, clerks, and negro boy were very much alarmed at seeing these men with blackened faces before them, and inquired what it all meant? They were quickly informed that it meant death to them, and a burning of the building, with all its contents: All commenced to plead for their lives, fell upon their knees, and besought their captors to spare their lives at least, whatever other punishment or destruction they might think proper to inflict; but the more they plead, the more deaf and the more lost to every sense of humanity their captors seemed to become. Taking some trace-chains which they found in the store, the old man, the two young men, and the negro boy were bound, hand and foot, and then secured to a post or some other fixed thing within the store. The only reason their captors would give for all this was that they were "d———d Yankees," that they had "supplied Union soldiers with food and clothing," that they were "traitors to the South," etc., etc., etc., all of which was interspersed with most horrid oaths and curses. When all four had been securely bound, gagged, and fastened, and their captors had helped themselves to whatever they wanted of the articles in the store, they left the building, and in a few moments thereafter it was in flames. Had the bound captives within not been gagged they would have almost raised the dead with their cries; but, as it was, nothing was heard save the fierce crackling of the flames, and in a little while the building and its contents lay in ashes, mingled and intermingled with the bones of the four victims. Again Moseby's oft-repeated maxims had found a terrible illustration, "Dead men tell no tales"—"Dead men never bite!"
The next instance of the doings of this gang of desperadoes which we purpose to relate, occurred not long after, near Shepherdstown, Md., and was of a much milder type of villany. We relate it here that our readers may see, by contrast, that these murdering guerillas were as ready to do small, mean things, as great, horrid things; and that personal malice and personal advantage, rather than advantage to the Southern Confederacy, were sometimes the incentives to their acts.
Lieutenant-Colonel Phillips, though a Marylander, was from the beginning of the agitation a strong Union man, and, when volunteers were called for from Maryland, did not hesitate a moment to offer his services in the Union cause, and became lieutenant-colonel of one of the Union Maryland regiments. He left at home, in care of his father, a very fine horse. Colonel Moseby heard of this horse, and determined to become its possessor. With blackened faces, he, or some of his men, went to the Phillips' farm at night, stole the horse, and returned to Virginia the same night. The fact soon after came to the ears of a chivalrous Confederate officer, who had known Lieutenant-Colonel Phillips when at the same college with himself, and who, though not liking Phillips now, disliked meanness still more. He informed General Breckinridge, and afterwards General Lee, of the theft. General Lee regarded such an act as a disgrace to the whole Confederate army, and at once sent a written order to Colonel Moseby to restore the horse. Colonel Moseby demurred, and tried to excuse the act as a legitimate capture from a well-known enemy; but General Lee was not to be deceived by any such sophistry, and insisted upon the return of the horse. The horse was returned!
The next instance, which occurred near Williamsport, Md., not long after, was of a far blacker and more diabolical character. A farmer living near this place, and known as a "Dunkard," was believed to have considerable quantities of gold and silver laid away in pots and stocking-legs about his house. He was not only a "neutral" in politics and with regard to the war, but his religion made him a non-combatant as well. Confederates, of course, denounced him as a traitor to the Southern cause, and thought he should at least contribute his money, if not his life, to defend it. He would say nothing, do nothing, no matter what others might say or do. One dark night three masked men came to his house, murdered him, and took his money. They were not recognized, not traced, nor did any one then find out, nor does any one now know, who really did the deed; but it was then believed, and is still believed, that Moseby's guerilla band were the perpetrators.
That same fall another instance occurred, in which Moseby's guerillas were certainly the actors, and which was of a much more warlike character.
To cut off, gobble up, capture, or destroy paymasters and their escorts, quartermaster trains; and commissary trains, Colonel Moseby regarded as his special and particular province, and every one of his men was on the special look-out for chances of this kind. On the occasion now under consideration, Brevet Major Paymaster Tilletson was on his way from Williamsport to Shepherdstown, Md., accompanied by a captain, three lieutenants, and six privates—the latter and one lieutenant as an escort, the other officers returning to their respective commands from sick-leaves. Suddenly, without a moment's warning, Moseby, with a number of his gang, sprang out upon them, and, holding a cocked pistol at the head of each, demanded their surrender. Of course, they could do nothing but submit. Each officer was securely bound, while the privates were either killed or made their escape. In due time the whole party arrived within the Confederate lines, when the Union officers would probably have been made to illustrate Moseby's maxim, that "dead men tell no tales," had not an officer who had his authority direct from the War Department met him and ordered him to send the prisoners to Richmond. Moseby and his men helped themselves to so much of the greenbacks as they could conveniently carry, while tens of thousands of dollars were found next day scattered along the road between Williamsport and Shepherdstown.
Not long after the capture just related, Moseby and his men gobbled up another squad of officers, consisting of one major, two captains, and three lieutenants, who had been absent on sick-leaves and were then returning to their respective commands. After they had surrendered as prisoners of war, their money, watches, and everything they had of any value was taken from them. When fairly within the Confederate lines they were taken into a dense pine-grove, some distance off the road, and then told they were all to be hung so soon as the needed preparations could be made. Had a thunderbolt fallen at their feet from a clear sky, these six Union officers could not have been more surprised. All protested against such unmilitary, unusual, inhuman treatment—some begged for life, some wept; but the only reply they could get from Moseby was, "Prepare for death!" Providentially, as it would seem, one young man of Moseby's band had a "heart of flesh," and determined, if possible, to save the lives of these officers. He knew that an officer who had the authority to command Moseby (the same referred to in the preceding incident) was at a farm-house only a few miles from the pine-grove in which they had stopped for temporary encampment, and where these Union officers were to be executed. Slipping away from his comrades, he hastened to the farm-house to tell this officer of what Moseby proposed to do. So soon as the officer was told, he determined to stop it, if they could only reach there before the men were executed. The officer and private mounted fresh horses, borrowed from the farmer, and rode with breakneck speed until they reached the grove. It was quite dark, but the camp-fires of Moseby and his men lighted them to the spot. Springing from his horse at the edge of the grove, the officer left the two horses in care of the young man and hastened to where he saw the camp-fire burning. Stopping for a moment to survey the scene before making his presence known, he observed the six Union officers seated on a log on the opposite side of the fire from where he stood, each with head dropped upon his breast, each with eyes glaring wildly into vacancy or suffused with tears, each with lips pale with fear or moving in silent prayer, and each the very picture of despair in feature and attitude. Moseby was walking to and fro in front of them, uttering oaths and imprecations against them; guards stood about them or walked their rounds silently; while only a little way off, in plain sight, others were busy throwing over or affixing ropes to limbs preparatory for execution. It was a scene which only the pencil of a Raphael might have sketched or a Gorreggio have painted.
The officer, having fully surveyed and comprehended the whole scene, suddenly sprang from the darkness into the light of the camp-fire, and in a sharp tone demanded of Colonel Moseby what all this meant.