Part 15

The surprised visitor did not have time to think. He accepted the proffered hand in a mechanical manner and said slowly:

“You—you are—”

“Sam Munson, of course. Don’t you remember me?”

“Judge Munson’s son?”

“Certainly—but it’s been ten years since we’ve met. I’m surely glad to see you. How are you, anyhow?”

“I’m right well,” said the stampeded one, “and how are you?”

“Well, I haven’t been very well, but the sight of you is a cure for sore eyes. They’ve locked me up on suspicion, and you’ve just come in the nick of time. They wanted some one to let them know that I was really Sam Munson. How long has it been since you’ve been in the old town?”

“Two years,” said Brock, watching the other man intently.

“Well, it’s been ten since I was there, and I’ll bet they’ve had some big changes in that time.”

“Rather!”

“By the way,” continued Baker, trying to prevent the other from having time to think, “you remember the Bradleys, don’t you? Well, I heard not long ago that Sue Bradley had married—married some fellow from Chattanooga. She was a mighty fine girl was Sue, and the fellow that got her got a prize.”

Well, to make a long story short the bluff worked—not like a charm, but with sufficient smoothness to enable the nervy spy to save his life. Brock and Baker had one or two more interviews, and by ransacking his brain for incidents he had learned about the prominent people of Knoxville he finally persuaded Brock that he was really Sam Munson. The visitor even went so far as to apologize for his seeming inability to place his fellow townsman at first sight.

“But you must remember that it has been many years since you left the old town, Sam. You’ve changed a lot since then.”

“Don’t mention it,” was the hearty response. “I’d have been the same if I had been in your place. But you’ve done me a good turn, and I won’t forget it.”

There was no doubt of the good turn—if saving a man from being shot as a spy can be placed in that category.

As a result of the business Baker was not released, but he was placed under parole. This gave him the right to wander about Richmond at will—the very privilege he most desired. If he had planned the thing in advance it could not have worked out more to his liking. He was free to go and come as he pleased, and he was actually under the patronage and the protection of the Confederate Government!

For two days and two nights he roamed about until he became as familiar with conditions in Richmond as if he were a resident. He obtained a mass of data concerning military plans and proposed movements, learned where troops were quartered and where fortifications were being erected. Most of this information he carried in his head, but in a few instances he made notes of a character which were intelligible to himself, but which were not likely to be decipherable to any one else. Finally the time came when he knew more than “was good” for himself, from a Confederate point of view. The question was how to get this knowledge to the Federal Government. The fact that he had been before Mr. Davis and was now at liberty made him seem harmless to most of the officers in Richmond. He became personally acquainted with some of them. One was the Provost Marshal, and so, one day, when he asked that official for a pass to permit him to visit Fredericksburg it was granted without any hesitation.

He proceeded to that place without any difficulty. Once or twice he was halted by sentinels, but the production of his pass was all that was needed to permit him to go on his way. On the night of the day he reached Fredericksburg he parted with another of his precious gold pieces to a negro who rowed him across the Rappahannock. He drew a breath of relief when he reached the other side of the stream, and yet he realized that his dangers had only begun. That night he slept in a haystack—slept the sleep of a dog-tired man, if not of the just. When he awoke at dawn he discovered signs of activity in the vicinity of the barn where he had slept and he knew that he was being pursued. He lay very quiet and listened. Voices were shouting and it did not take him long to learn that a squad of Confederate cavalry was on the hunt and that a number of horsemen surrounded the barn.

He shuddered at the thought of the consequences. He had plenty of courage but he did not relish the thought of being caught like a rat in a trap. He had provided himself with a revolver, and he firmly resolved that if he were detected he would not give his life easily. He grasped the weapon, and lay very, very quiet. He was almost afraid to breathe. Presently one of the cavalrymen dismounted and flourishing his sword began a search of the barn. Some of those on the outside were shouting instructions to the searcher, and he responded cheerily. He poked his sword here and there in the hay rick, calling meanwhile on any supposed fugitive to surrender if he did not want to be killed. At one time the point of the sword just grazed Baker’s boots. He could have screamed with nervousness, but by a super-human effort he managed to keep perfectly quiet. And by so doing he saved his life, for the officer turning to his companions called:

“He ain’t here, boys—we might as well move on!”

They rode off, to the great joy of the hidden man. He remained still until the sound of the horses’ hoofs had died out in the distance, and then he crept from his place of concealment more dead than alive. He waited for a long while and then crept out of the barn and made for the woods. How long he straggled through the woods he could not tell, but he was so hungry, and faint and footsore that nothing seemed to make any difference. That night he managed to get supper in a hut owned by a poor colored man, and afterwards tried to find just where the Potomac was located. When he reached that stream he discovered an old row boat. The owner of it was lying, half asleep, on the banks of the river. Baker invited him to sell the boat, offering the last of his gold pieces for craft, but the owner indignantly refused saying that he would not part with it for any price.

This was discouraging, and in lieu of anything better to do he lay down and went to sleep, with the hard earth for a couch, and the shining stars for his covering. He awakened just before daylight with every bone in his body aching, and an intense yearning for home. The owner of the boat was still asleep, and his craft lay anchored in the water. It did not take Baker long to come to a decision. At that stage of his career larceny seemed a very petty offense. He crept down to the water side and climbing into the boat began to row gently into the stream. The job was not an easy one because the oars were broken and decayed. However, by great care he managed to get the boat into the middle of the stream. At that moment the owner awoke, and when he discovered what had happened sent up a series of ear-splitting screams.

“Come back with that boat, you thief,” he yelled, “or I’ll kill you.”

Baker did not fear anything from the man, but in a few moments he saw that three or four soldiers had suddenly appeared upon the scene, and were talking with the distracted owner of the boat. They grasped the situation at a glance, and ordered him to halt at the risk of his life. Instead of halting he pulled harder than ever. Without another word one of the soldiers raised his gun and fired. The shot struck one of the oars and shattered it. Once again came the command to halt and once again the fleeing man renewed his efforts as best he could with the broken oar. This time three of the soldiers aimed at the man in the boat. There was a hissing sound, Baker ducked and the bullets went skimming across the water. The situation was becoming perilous. The fugitive plied his one good oar, and worked the stump of the other with great vigor, and in this way managed to lengthen the distance between himself and the shore. A final volley came from the soldiers and this time the shots fell short of the mark by several yards.

Baker breathed freely for the first time since he had boarded the boat. He was out of danger for the time being. All depended now upon his ability to get to the Maryland side of the stream. It was a hard job, but he stuck at it with the persistence of a desperate man, and eventually felt the small craft grazing the beach. He felt a strong desire to cheer, but he overestimated his strength, for the moment he climbed out of the boat he fell to the ground, exhausted. The perils and the privations he had undergone were enough to kill a less resolute and less hardy man. He lay on the shore for more than an hour, until finally a farmer passing that way halted and picked him up. He was taken to a farmhouse, and given a meal which he ate with the ravenousness of a wolf. His hosts were naturally filled with curiosity, but he felt that discretion was the part of wisdom and he declined to reveal his identity, or the cause of the plight in which he had been found.

That night, in spite of the protests of the farmer, he resumed his journey to Washington. He walked the greater part of the night and slept in a barn as usual. He begged his breakfast and then started on his last lap to the National Capital. It was some time before he felt that he was out of danger, but finally the dome of the Capitol came into view, and he knew then that he was safe and that his remarkable adventure was to be a success. It was nearly noon, and there was a broiling sun when he finally reached the streets of Washington. He did not wait to eat or to make himself presentable, but headed immediately for the headquarters of General Scott. The attendant at the door repulsed him and said that it would be impossible to see the General at that time. Baker knew that this reception was caused by his disreputable appearance, and once he was sure that Scott was in his room, he pushed the man aside and bolted into the apartment where the head of the army was making his headquarters. The General was seated at a desk and as the strange looking specimen of humanity stood beside him, he said rather gruffly:

“Well, sir, what can I do for you?”

Baker threw out his arms in a gesture of entreaty and said with a wan smile:

“Why, General, don’t you know me?”

The veteran rose to his feet and closely scrutinized the speaker, and then he said, with a welcoming smile and outstretched hand:

“Well, by all that’s holy, it’s Baker!”

He would not let him tell his story then, but insisted upon his taking a hearty dinner and making himself comfortable. After that the adventurous one sat down and gave a detailed account of his exploits from the time he left Washington. He presented a complete report of all he had learned while in Richmond, and furnished him with data concerning the size and movements of the Confederate soldiers. Other members of the staff were called into consultation, and after their talk had been concluded Baker was plied with questions which he had no difficulty in answering. It was dusk before he had talked himself out, and then the General took him by the hand and thanked him for what he had done for the Government.

“You have more than made good,” he said, “and I will see that you get the recognition which you deserve.”

On the following morning General Scott walked over to the War Department, and when he returned he carried with him a commission which made Lafayette Baker an agent in the secret service of the War Department. From that time until the close of the war he participated actively in the work of both the War and State Departments. He was recognized by President Lincoln and became intimately associated with Secretary Stanton. As the result of all this he was made Provost General and later was promoted to the post of Brigadier-General in the army.

XVII

THE MYSTERIOUS “F” AND THE CAPTURED TROOPERS

A fan, a glove, a whiff of perfume, an unknown female spy, and a troop of captured soldiers, taken unawares, constitute pretty good ingredients for a romance, and yet they have been part of the actual history of more than one war.

During the Civil War the Union troops occupied the territory known as Fairfax Court House for a considerable period. It was in Virginia, and might fairly be said to be “the enemy’s country.” It was one of those army outposts where the men are called upon to do a great deal of watchful waiting. The Union soldiers and the residents of the community came to know one another pretty well, and in the course of time there came that familiarity which breeds contempt of danger. There were social affairs and the people came and went as they pleased.

General Stoughton was in charge of the small Union force which was in control of the town, and there is nothing in the official reports to indicate that he was remiss in any way. But some of the men began to feel that everything was not as it should be. It was rumored that at least one of the women in the place was supplying information to the enemy. Just who it was could not be determined, but presently the word went around that the mysterious spy was known only by the letter “F.”

Mosby’s raiders were performing sensational feats in many parts of Virginia at that time, and it was hinted that they were in the vicinity of Fairfax Court House. One day one of the charming Southern girls of the town went out horseback riding with one of the Union officers. It was a delightful trip and the soldier greatly enjoyed the conversation of his companion, who was a cultivated woman, who, while naturally having much love for her own people, insisted that she had no feeling against the “Yankees.” During the return home she became separated from him, and when he rejoined her, found that she was talking to a man by the roadside, in civilian attire. Not much was thought of the incident at the time, but later it was reported that the stranger was not only connected with the Confederate Army, but was actually on the staff of the famous Mosby.

The house occupied by General Stoughton at Fairfax Court House was one of those Southern mansions which are so familiar in Virginia. It was of brick, with a porch, and covered with creeping vines which gave it a most picturesque appearance. The halls were wide and the rooms large and airy. It is not hard to imagine that the ample drawing-room must have been the scene of many festivities in ante-bellum days. In a word, it was just the sort of setting that was necessary for the remarkable adventure in which a girl, a famous scout and a captured general were to be the central figures.

One day a young Union officer entered the drawing-room of this house, and looking about him discovered a fan and a pair of gloves upon the large center table. There was the scent of a faint perfume in the apartment and following it he came across a beautiful girl to whom the articles belonged. He returned them with a gallantry which it might be supposed was foreign to a Northerner, but which as a matter of fact was quite as common as it was in those living south of Mason and Dixon’s line. He was fascinated with the girl and she betrayed just enough interest in him to make him want to dance attendance upon her. His duties were not particularly trying at that time and as a consequence he managed to spend a great deal of his time in her company.

Her name—well, he heard it, but it did not make much of an impression upon his mind. It is enough to say that from that time the war seemed to be of secondary importance compared to the ardent affection he felt for the young woman. They walked together and they talked together and he lived in a Paradise of his own making, none the less attractive because it happened to be a Fool’s Paradise. Even after the incident which caused such a stir at the time, he defended her from the charge of deceit, so far as he was concerned. But it is very evident that information concerning the conditions about the outpost began to filter into the Confederate lines. Through some mysterious agency all of the details concerning the topography of the camp found its way to General Stuart, the Confederate cavalry leader, and then one evening the thing happened which caused consternation in the North, and was received with joy and laughter in the South.

Mosby, the Confederate Guerrilla, from time to time, obtained information concerning the outpost at Fairfax Court House, and he finally determined to raid it in the hope of making some sensational captures. His little band, which had been recruited from Stuart’s Cavalry, was eager for the venture, and held themselves in readiness for the order from their chief. Mosby, who had the loyalty of his men in an intense degree, was one of the remarkable men of the Civil War. He weighed only one hundred and twenty-five pounds and was about five feet, eight inches in height. His face was clean cut and smooth shaven and he had straight, firm lips and a nose that has been described as resembling an eagle’s beak. He was just the type of man who might be expected to engage in dangerous adventure without the thought of the consequences.

The affair took place on the eighth of March, 1863. Mosby had been with his Rangers only a month, but already he was gaining a name for himself in all parts of the country. Fairfax Court House at this time was surrounded by large numbers of Union soldiers. Centreville, only a few miles away, contained a brigade of trained men. Still another brigade of mixed troops was located on the pike, near the town. This would seem to be pretty dangerous territory for a small body of raiders, but Mosby had not been receiving information for days without understanding the situation fully. He knew that there was one weak link in the chain of defenses and he knew precisely where to look for it. He proceeded in the direction of this weak spot, followed by twenty-nine of his most daring men. It was pitch dark and impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. Presently they found themselves in the Court House Square, in the center of the town. A picket coming out of the darkness called out:

“Who goes there?”

“A friend,” came the reply in a muffled voice.

“Advance and give the countersign,” came from the sentinel.

Two of Mosby’s men did advance, but they did not give the countersign. On the contrary they threw a coat about the man’s head, and before he realized what was going on he had been tied and gagged, and placed near the roadside where he was not likely to do any damage to the expedition. The men were now given specific directions by Mosby as to their duties. The proof that he had been in receipt of confidential messages from the outpost was shown by the fact that he was able to direct each of the men to the particular place where he would find a particular Union officer. They separated and went in squads to different parts of the city. Mosby was particularly anxious to capture Colonel Wyndham, because that officer had sent him a tantalizing message only a few days before; but when he arrived at Wyndham’s tent he discovered that his man was not there. As a matter of fact the officer had been summoned to Washington only that morning and thus escaped the humiliation of being captured by Mosby.

In the meanwhile, as his officers went about their various assignments, the chief raider made for the headquarters of General Stoughton. The large front door was unlocked, of course, and Mosby proceeded upstairs to the room which he knew was occupied by the Union officer. He tapped at the door and in a little while it was opened by a young lieutenant who was only partly dressed. He rubbed his eyes and demanded to know the cause of such a visit at such an unearthly hour. Mosby, who seemed to be enjoying the situation, took him to one side and ordered him to take care not to speak loudly or he would shoot him instantly. He demanded to be taken to the bedside of General Stoughton, and as the young man was unarmed, and startled into the bargain, he complied with the request. Once by the bedside the Guerrilla Chieftain gave the sleeping man a terrific whack that awakened him and brought him out of bed in a hurry. He was furious, but before he could say a word the invader said in a tragic whisper:

“Did you ever hear of John S. Mosby?”

“Certainly,” was the quick rejoinder. “Have you captured him?”

“No,” was the laughing reply, “but he has captured you.”

It was humiliating, but General Stoughton was unarmed and perfectly helpless. He was compelled to dress and to go with his captor, who by this time was reënforced by a number of his men. They went in the direction of the Court House Square where they found the remainder of the raiders, with a large number of prisoners lined up and ready for departure. There were in all, fifty or sixty prisoners and fifty-eight horses. In the darkness some of the prisoners escaped. As the party passed a dwelling in the town a voice from an upper window demanded to know who they were. It happened to be the Lieutenant-Colonel of a New York Regiment. Two of Mosby’s men were sent into the house to add him to the prizes already in hand but he managed to elude them and to escape.

But how did Mosby and his men get out of Fairfax Court House without arousing the soldiers in the vicinity? Let that be told by Mr. John W. Munson, who was one of the famous raiders, and who has written a most entertaining story of their exploits. “It was always Mosby’s care,” he says, “to get his men out of the troubles into which he led them. The troops in the town knew of his presence, but each man of them seemed to be looking out for himself, and there was no concert of action. Mosby started toward Fairfax Station to throw his pursuers off their guard, and then suddenly turned toward Centreville. To pass that point meant a great deal to him. The heavy guns looked down frowningly on him only a few hundred yards away, and the Sentinels on the works with ‘Who goes there?’ hailed him as he passed under them, but he made no reply. Silently the little troop passed along by the big guns of the forts with their prisoners and vanished into the darkness. Captain Barker, one of the prisoners, made a dash toward the fort but was shot at by one of the guerrillas and recaptured just as his horse fell into a ditch.

“One more serious danger confronted Mosby. Cub Run, just beyond Centreville, was overflowing. Back of the little band of raiders was the fort with its brigade of soldiers, soon to be, if not already alarmed; in front of them a raging torrent. There was not an instant of hesitation but, plunging into the mad stream, the whole party swam safely across, although many were carried downstream with the current. Once on the other side pursuit seemed almost impossible and, as the sun rose above the eastern horizon, Mosby breathed his first sigh of relief. Even at that hour he knew that he had graven his name in history never to be effaced. He had performed another feat entirely new in the annals of war, and one that was never to be repeated. In time he reached Culpepper Court House and turned his prisoners over to General Fitz Hugh Lee, who was a classmate of General Stoughton’s at West Point.”

In the morning Lieutenant-Colonel Johnston started in pursuit of Mosby, but it was too late to capture him or to save the prisoners who had been caught so cleverly. The news spread to all parts of the country and was given an importance far beyond its military meaning. It was humiliating, of course, but it did not have any positive effect upon the remaining days of the war. The most interesting comment, as might be expected, came from President Lincoln, who, when informed that one of his generals and a large number of horses had been captured said, dryly:

“I’m sorry about the horses. I can make Brigadier-Generals easily, but I can’t make horses.”