Chapter 22

The forest in which we are encamped, was, in former times, a rendezvous for the blacklegs, thieves, murderers, and outlaws, generally of two States, Tennessee and Georgia. An old inhabitant informs me he has seen hundreds of these persecuted and proscribed gentry encamped about this spring. When an officer of Tennessee came with a writ to arrest them, they would step a few yards into the State of Georgia and laugh at him. So, when Georgia sought to lay its official clutches on an offending Georgian, the latter would walk over into Tennessee and argue the case across the line. It was a very convenient spot for law-breakers. To reach across this imaginary line, and draw a man from Tennessee, would be kidnapping, an insult to a sovereign State, and in a States'-rights country such a procedure could not be tolerated. Requisitions from the governors of Tennessee and Georgia might, of course, be procured, but this would take time, and in this time the offender could walk leisurely into Alabama or North Carolina, neither of which States is very far away. In fact, the presence of large numbers of these desperados, in this locality, at all seasons of the year, has prevented its settlement by good men, and, in consequence, there are thousands of acres on which there has scarcely been a field cleared, or even a tree cut.

The somber forest, with its peculiar history, suggests to our minds the green woods of old England, where Robin Hood and his merry men were wont to pass their idle time; or the Black Forest of Germany, where thieves and highwaymen found concealment in days of old.

What a country for the romancer! Here is the dense wilderness, the Tennessee and Chickamauga, the precipitous Lookout with his foot-hills, spurs, coves, and water-falls. Here are cosy little valleys from which the world, with its noise, bustle, confusions, and cares, is excluded. Here have congregated the bloody villains and sneaking thieves; the plumed knights, dashing horsemen, and stubborn infantry. Here are the two great battle-fields of Chickamauga and Mission Ridge. Here neighbors have divided, and families separated to fight on questions of National policy. Here, in short, every thing is supplied to the poet but the invention to construct the plot of his tale, and the genius to breathe life into the characters.

It may be possible, however, that the country is yet too young, and its incidents too new, to make it a fertile field for the novelist. The imagination works best amid scenes half known and half forgotten. When time shall have thrown its shadows over the events of the last century, and the real and unreal become so intermingled in the minds of men as to become indistinguishable, imaginary Robin Hoods will find hiding places in the caves; innocent men, in deadly peril, will seek safety in the mountain fastnesses until the danger be past; conspirators will meet in the shadowy recesses to concoct their hellish plots, over which truth, courage, and honesty will finally triumph. Here the blue and the gray will meet to fight, and to be reconciled; and there will not be wanting the Helen McGregors and Die Vernons to give color and interest to the scene.

27. Our horses are on quarter feed.

Some benevolent gentleman should suggest a sanitary fair for the benefit of the disabled horses and mules of the Federal army. There is no suffering so intense as theirs. They are driven, with whip and spur, on half and quarter food, until they drop from exhaustion, and then abandoned to die in the mud-hole where they fall. At Parker's Gap, on our return from Tennessee, I saw a poor white horse that had been rolled down the hill to get it out of the road. It had lodged against a fallen tree, feet uppermost; to get up the hill was impossible, and to roll down certain destruction. So the poor brute lay there, looking pitiful enough, his big frame trembling with fright, his great eyes looking anxiously, imploringly for help. A man can give vent to his sufferings, he can ask for assistance, he can find some relief either in crying, praying, or cursing; but for the poor exhausted and abandoned beast there is no help, no relief, no hope.

To-day we picked up, on the battle-field of Chickamauga, the skull of a man who had been shot in the head. It was smooth, white, and glossy. A little over three months ago this skull was full of life, hope, and ambition. He who carried it into battle had, doubtless, mother, sisters, friends, whose happiness was, to some extent, dependent upon him. They mourn for him now, unless, possibly, they hope still to hear that he is safe and well. Vain hope. Sun, rain, and crows have united in the work of stripping the flesh from his bones, and while the greater part of these lay whitening where they fell, the skull has been rolling about the field the sport and plaything of the winds. This is war, and amid such scenes we are supposed to think of the amount of our salary, and of what the newspapers may say of us.

28. One of my orderlies approached me on my weak side to-day, by presenting me four cigars. Cigars are now rarely seen in camp. Sutlers have not been permitted to come further south than Bridgeport; and had it not been for the trip into East Tennessee the brigade would have been utterly destitute of tobacco.

While bivouacking on the Hiawasse, a citizen named Trotter, came into camp. He was an old man, and professed to be loyal. I interrogated him on the tobacco question. He replied, "The crap has been mitey poor fur a year or two. I don't use terbacker myself, but my wife used to chaw it; but the frost has been a nippen of it fur a year or two, and it is so poor she has quit chawen ontirely."

When returning from Knoxville, we passed a farm house which stood near the roadside. Three young women were standing at the gate, and appeared to be in excellent spirits. Captain Wager inquired if they had heard from Knoxville. "O yes," they answered, "General Longstreet has captured Knoxville and all of General Burnside's men." "Indeed," said the Captain; "what about Chattanooga?" "Well, we heard that Bragg had moved back to Dalton." "You have not heard, then, that Bragg was whipped; lost sixty pieces of artillery and many thousand men?" "O no!" "You have not heard that Longstreet was defeated at Knoxville, and compelled to fall back with heavy loss?" "No, no; we don't believe a word of it. A man, who came from Knoxville and knows all about it, says that you uns are retreating now as fast as you can. You can't whip our fellers." "Well, ladies," said the Captain, "I am glad to see you feeling so well under adverse circumstances. Good-by."

The girls were evidently determined that the Yank should not deceive them.

At another place quite a number of women and children were standing by the roadside. As the column approached, said one of the women to a soldier: "Is these uns Yankees?" "Yes, madam," replied the boy, "regular blue-bellied Yankees." "We never seed any you uns before." "Well, keep a sharp lookout and you'll see they all have horns on."

One day, while I was at Davis' quarters, near Columbus, a preacher came in and said he wanted to sell all the property he could to the army and get greenbacks, as he desired to move to Illinois, where his brother-in-law resided, and his Confederate notes would not be worth a dime there. "How is that, Parson," said Davis, affecting to misunderstand him; "not worth a damn there?" "No, sir, no, sir; not worth a dime, sir. You misunderstood me, sir. I said not worth a dime there." "I beg your pardon, Parson," responded Davis; "I thought you said not worth a damn there, and was surprised to hear you say so."

While we were encamped on the banks of the Hiawasse, a Union man, near seventy years old, was murdered by guerrillas. Not long before, a young lady, the daughter of a Methodist minister, was robbed and murdered near the same place. Murders and robberies are as common occurrences in that portion of Tennessee as marriages in Ohio, and excite about as little attention. Horse stealing is not considered an offense.

29. Nothing of interest has transpired to-day. Bugles, drums, drills, parades--the old story over and over again; the usual number of corn-cakes eaten, of pipes smoked, of papers respectfully forwarded, of how-do-ye-do's to colonels, captains, lieutenants, and soldiers. You put on your hat and take a short walk. It does you no good. Returning you lie down on the cot, and undertake to sleep; but you have already slept too much, and you get up and smoke again, look over an old paper, yawn, throw the paper down, and conclude it is confoundedly dull. Jack brings in dinner. You see somebody passing; it is Captain Clayson, the Judge-Advocate, and you cry out: "Hold on, Captain; come in and have a bite of dinner." He concludes to do so. Being a judge-advocate he talks law, and impresses you with the idea that every other judge-advocate has in some respects been faulty; but he has taken pains to master his duties perfectly, and makes no mistakes. Pretty soon Major Shane drops in, and you ask him to dine; but he has just been to dinner, and thanks you. Observing Captain Clayson, he asks how the business of the court-martial progresses, and says: "By the way, Captain, the sentence in that quartermaster's case was disapproved because the record was defective." The Captain blushes. He made up the record, and it strikes him the Major's remark is very untimely.

It is dull!

30. Took a ten-mile ride this afternoon. Two miles from camp I met Lieutenant Platt, one of my aids. He had asked permission in the morning to go into the country to secure a lady for a dance, which is to take place a night or two hence. I asked: "Where have you been, Lieutenant?" "At Mrs. Calisspe's, the house on the left, yonder." I did not, of course, ask if he had been successful in his mission; but as I approached the little frame in which Mrs. Calisspe resided, I thought I would drop in and see what sort of a woman had drawn the Lieutenant so far from camp. Knocking at the door, a feminine voice said "Come in," and I entered. There were three females. The elder I took to be Mrs. Calisspe. A handsome, neatly-dressed young lady I concluded was the one the Lieutenant sought. A heavy and rather dull woman, who stood leaning against the wall, I set down as a dependent or servant in the family. "Beg pardon, madam, is this the direct road to Shallow Ford?" "Yes, sir, the straight road. Won't you take a seat?" "Thank you, no. Good evening." Trotting along over the road which Mrs. Calisspe said was straight, but which, in fact, was exceedingly crooked, we came finally to the camp of the Thirteenth Michigan, a regiment which General Thomas supposes to be engaged in cutting saw-logs, when, in truth, its principal business is strolling about the country stealing chickens. It is, however, known as the saw-log regiment.

On our return from Shallow Ford, as we approached Mrs. Calisspe's, we saw her handsome daughter on the porch inspecting a side-saddle, and concluded from this that the gallant Lieutenant's application had been successful, and that she proposed to accompany him to the ball on horseback. As we galloped by the house, a little flaxen-haired, chubby boy, who had climbed the fence, extended his head over the top rail and jabbered at us at the top of his voice; but the handsome young lady did not favor us with even a glance.

31. It is late. Hours ago the bugles notified the boys that it was time to retire to their dens. I have been reading Thackeray's "Lovell, the Widower," and as I sat alone in the silence of the middle night, the scenes depicted grew distinct and life-like; the characters encompassed me about real living men and women; the drawing-rooms, dining-halls, parlors, opened out before me; the streets, walks, drives, were all visible, and I became a spectator instead of a reader. Suddenly a low, unearthly wail broke the stillness, and my hair stiffened somewhat at the roots, as the fancy struck me that I heard the voice of the defunct Mrs. Lovell. A moment's reflection, however, dispelled this disagreeable thought. Looking toward the corner of the cabin whence the ghostly sound emanated, I discovered a strange cat. My long-legged boots followed each other in quick succession toward the unhappy kitten, and I yelled "scat" in a very vindictive way.

JANUARY 1, 1864.

Standing on a peak of Mission Ridge to-day, we had spread out before us one of the grandest prospects which ever delighted the eye of man. Northward Waldron's Ridge and Lookout mountain rose massive and precipitous, and seemed the boundary wall of the world. Below them was the Tennessee, like a ribbon of silver; Chattanooga, with its thousands of white tents and miles of fortifications. Southward was the Chickamauga, and beyond a succession of ridges, rising higher and higher, until the eye rested upon the blue tops of the great mountains of North Carolina. The fact that a hundred and fifty thousand men, with all the appliances of war, have struggled for the possession of these mountains, rivers, and ridges, gives a solemn interest to the scene, and renders it one of the most interesting, as it is one of the grandest, in the world.

When history shall have recorded the thrilling tragedies enacted here; when poets shall have illuminated every hill-top and mountain peak with the glow of their imagination; when the novelist shall have given it a population from his fertile brain, what place can be more attractive to the traveler?

Looking on this panorama of mountains, ridges, rivers, and valleys, one has a juster conception of the power of God. Reflecting upon the deeds that have been done here, he obtains a truer knowledge of the character of man, and the incontestable evidences of his nobility.

* * * * *

Standing here to-day, I take off my hat to the reader, if by possibility there be one who has had the patience to follow me thus far, and as I bid him good-by, wish him "A Happy New Year."

CAPTURE, IMPRISONMENT,

AND

ESCAPE,

BY

GENERAL HARRISON C. HOBART,

OF MILWAUKEE, WISCONSIN.

EXPLANATORY.

Among the Union officers who escaped from Libby Prison at Richmond, on the night of the 9th of February, 1864, was my esteemed friend, General Harrison C. Hobart, then Colonel of the Twenty-first Wisconsin Volunteer Infantry. His name is mentioned quite frequently in the preceding pages. Ten years after the war closed, he spent a few days at my house, and while there was requested to tell the story of his capture, imprisonment, and escape. My children gathered about him, and listened to his narrative with an intensity of interest which I am very sure they never exhibited when receiving words of admonition and advice from their father.

While my manuscript was in the hands of the publishers, it occurred to me that General Hobart's story would be as interesting to others as it had been to my own family, and so I wrote, urging him to furnish it to me for publication. He finally consented to do so, and I have the pleasure now of presenting it to the reader. It bears upon its face the evidence of its entire truthfulness, and yet is as interesting as a romance.

JOHN BEATTY.

GENERAL HOBART'S NARRATIVE.

The battles of Chickamauga were fought on the 19th and 20th of September, 1863. The Twenty-first Wisconsin, which I then commanded, formed a part of Thomas' memorable line, and fought through the battles of Saturday and Sunday. At the close of the second day, Thomas' Corps still maintained its position, and presented an unbroken front to the enemy, but the right of our army having fallen back, the tide of battle was turning against us.

To avoid a flank movement, our brigade was ordered to leave the breastworks, which they had held against the severest fire of the enemy during the day, and fall back to a second position. Here only a portion of the men, with three regimental standards, were rallied. A rebel battery was instantly placed in position on our right, and rebel cavalry swept between us and the retreating army.

Being the ranking officer among those who rallied, I directed the men to cut their way through to our retreating line. I was on the left of this movement to the rear, and, to avoid the approach of horsemen, rapidly passed to the left through a dense cluster of small pines, and instantly found myself in the immediate front of a rebel line of infantry. I halted, being dismounted, and an officer advanced and offered his hand, saying that he was glad to see me, and proposed to introduce me to his commander, General Cleburne. I replied, that I was not particularly pleased to see him, but, under the circumstances, should not decline his invitation.

I met the General, who was mounted and being cheered by his men, and surrendered to him my sword. He inquired where I had been fighting. I said, "Right there," pointing to the line of Thomas' Corps. He replied, "This line has given us our chief trouble, sir; your soldiers have fought like brave men; come with me and I will see that no one insults or interferes with you."

It was now after sun-down, and the last guns of the terrible battle of Chickamauga were dying away along the hillsides of Mission Ridge. A large number of prisoners of war were soon gathered, and marched to the enemy's rear across the Chickamauga. Here we witnessed the fearful results of the battle. The ground strewed with the dead and wounded, the shattered fragments of transportation, and a general demoralization among the forces, told the fearful price which the enemy had paid for their victory. More than fifteen hundred soldiers, prisoners of war, camped by a large spring to pass the remainder of a cold night; some without blankets or overcoats, and all without provisions.

The next day we were marched about thirty miles to Tunnel Hill, where we received our first rations from the enemy. On this march, the only food we obtained was from a field of green sorghum. Here we were placed in box cars and taken to Atlanta. On arriving at this place, we were first marched to an open field outside of the city, near a fountain of water, and surrounded by a guard. Kind-hearted people came out of the city, bringing bread with them, which they threw to us across the guard line. Immediately a second line was established, distant several rods outside of the first, to prevent them from giving us food.

From this place we were marched to the old slave-pen, and every man, as he entered the narrow gate, was compelled to give up his overcoat and blanket. I remonstrated with the officers for stripping the soldiers of their necessary clothing, as an act in violation of civilized warfare and inhuman. The men who were executing this infamous duty, did not deny these charges, but excused themselves on the ground that they were simply obeying an order of General Bragg from the front. That night I saw seventeen hundred Union soldiers lie down upon the ground, without an overcoat or blanket to protect them from the cold earth, or shield them from the heavy Southern dew.

The next morning we were ordered to take the cars, and proceed on our way to Richmond. These men arose from the ground, cold and wet with dew, and under my command organized and formed in column by companies, and marched to the depot through one of the main streets of Atlanta, singing in full chorus the Star Spangled Banner. Crowds gathered around us as we entered the cars. A guard with muskets accompanied the train.

I will here relate an incident which occurred on our way. We overtook a train of open cars, filled with Confederate wounded from the battle-field. The two trains stopped for some time alongside and in close proximity. It was a spectacle to see the men of the two armies intently observe each other. On the one side was the calm, pale face of the wounded; on the other, the earnest, deep sympathy of the captive. No unkind look or word passed between them. Of the seventeen hundred prisoners, there was not one who would not have given his coat, or reached for his last cent, to help his wounded brother.

On the last day of September, after traveling more than eight hundred miles from the battle-field of Chickamauga, we arrived at Richmond, and the officers of the Cumberland Army, to the number of about two hundred and fifty, were marched to Libby Prison.

This building has a front of about one hundred and forty feet, with a depth of about one hundred and five. There are nine rooms, each one hundred and two feet long, by forty-five wide. The height of ceilings from the floor is about seven feet. The building is also divided into three apartments by brick walls, and there is a basement below.

On entering the prison, we were severally searched, and every thing of value taken from us. Some of us saved our money by putting it into the seams of our garments before we arrived at Richmond. The officers of the Army of the Cumberland were assigned to the middle rooms of the second and third stories. The lower middle room was used as a general kitchen, and the basement immediately below was fitted up with cells for the confinement and punishment of offenders. These rooms received the _sobriquet_ of Chickamauga.

The whole number of officers of the army and navy in prison at this time was about eleven hundred--all having access to each other, except those in the hospital. There were no beds or chairs, and all slept on the floor. I shared a horse blanket with Surgeon Dixon, of Wisconsin, which was the only bedding we had for some time. Our bread was made of unbolted corn, and was cold and clammy. We were sometimes furnished with fresh beef, corn beef, and sometimes with rice and vegetable soup. The men formed themselves into messes, and each took his turn in preparing such food as we could get.

At one time, no meat was furnished for about nine days, and the reason given was, that their soldiers at the front required all they could obtain. During this period, we received nothing but corn bread. Kind friends sent us boxes of provisions from the North, which were opened and examined by the Confederates, and if nothing objectionable was found, and it pleased them, the party to whom a box was sent was directed to come down and get it. Many of these were never delivered. Every generous soul shared the contents of his box with his more unfortunate companions. Had it not been for this provision, our life in Libby would have been intolerable.

There was no glass in the windows, and for some time no fire in the rooms. An application for window glass, made during the severest cold weather, was answered by the assurance that the Confederates had none to furnish. The worst affliction, however, was the vermin, which invaded every department.

Each officer was permitted to write home the amount of three lines per week; but even these brief messages were not always allowed to leave Richmond.

A variety of schemes were adopted to improve or kill time. We played chess, cards, opened a theater, organized a band of minstrels, delivered lectures, established schools for teaching dancing, singing, the French language, and military tactics, read books, published a manuscript newspaper, held debates, and by these means rendered life tolerable, though by no means agreeable.

An incident occurred, after we had been in prison some time, which made a deep impression upon every one. Some of our men had been confined in a block not far from Libby, called the Pemberton Building. An order had been issued to remove them to North Carolina. When they left, their line of march was along the street in our front, and when they passed under our windows, we threw out drawers, shirts, stockings, etc., which they gathered up; and when they raised their pale and emaciated faces to greet their old commanders, there were but few dry eyes in Libby. Many of them were making their last march.