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Who was this Mr. Andrews, from whom we had just parted in storm and darkness,—the man from whose brain sprang the Chattanooga Railroad Expedition, and to whose keeping we had so fearlessly committed our lives? Few of us knew much about him at that time, but became wiser afterwards. As he is the hero of the earlier part of this story, it may be well to give the reader the benefit of all the information as to his character and history subsequently obtained.

Mr. J. J. Andrews was born in that part of Western Virginia known as the "Pan Handle," on the eastern bank of the Ohio River, and only separated from my own county of Jefferson by that stream. While quite young he had removed to the mountains of Eastern Kentucky, settling in Fleming County. Here he acquired considerable wealth, but at the outbreak of the civil war lost most of it again. While in business here he travelled over much of the South, and became acquainted with many men whom the war afterwards threw into prominence. At the first outbreak of hostilities he joined the Union army, not as a soldier, but in the still more useful and dangerous character of a spy and secret negotiator. He accompanied General Nelson in his Eastern Kentucky campaign, on which occasion I had seen him at Prestonburg, and afterwards he journeyed back and forth two or three times from Nashville before the capture of that city. He also spent several days in Fort Donelson during the week preceding its capture by General Grant. At this place he narrowly escaped detection. Subsequently he visited Atlanta and brought back much valuable information. By representing himself as a blockade-runner, and carrying southward through our lines articles of small bulk but of great value to the enemy, he secured their confidence and brought back information a hundredfold more valuable. This business was pecuniarily profitable to himself as well as very serviceable to the Union army. A Mr. Whiteman, of Nashville, afterwards testified that he had paid him ten thousand dollars for one cargo, the most of which was clear profit. Some of the Southern officers with whom he was intimate had bestowed upon him passes authorizing him to come and go through their lines at pleasure. It is not my intention to offer any apology for a man who thus betrays the confidence even of rebels. What justice requires to be said on this subject will find a more appropriate place in explaining the position of those who accompanied him in his last and most perilous journey. His occupation was one of the utmost danger, and he could not expect much mercy if detected. He had even gone the length of taking the oath of allegiance to the Southern Confederacy, though he was passionately loyal to the old government. Indeed, his hatred for secession and everything connected with it had become the more intense from the very disguise he so frequently assumed; and the desire to work all possible injury to that cause had far more influence in inducing him to pursue his perilous vocation than any hope of reward. I have since been told by Southern authorities that he acknowledged being promised fifty thousand dollars reward in case he succeeded in destroying the bridges from Atlanta to Chattanooga, but I never heard of such a contract. Certainly no reward whatever was promised directly or indirectly to the soldiers who accompanied him, and I never heard Andrews himself speak of expecting any pecuniary recompense.

Mr. Andrews was nearly six feet in height, of powerful frame, black hair, and long, black, and silken beard, Roman features, a high and expansive forehead, and a voice fine and soft as a woman's. Of polished manners, stately presence, and more than ordinary personal beauty, wide information, great shrewdness and sagacity, he was admirably fitted to win favor in a community like that of the South, which has always placed a high value on personal qualities. He had also the clear forethought in devising complicated schemes, and the calmness in the hour of danger necessary for the perilous game he played. Carrying his life in his hand whenever he ventured beyond the Union pickets, involved continually in dangers, where a single thoughtless word, or even an unguarded look, might lead to detection and death, he had learned to rely absolutely on his own resources, and to contemplate with easy familiarity enterprises that would have looked like sheer madness to one without this preliminary drill.

But it was said that even he had grown tired of this perpetual risk, and intended, if successful in this last and most difficult enterprise, to retire to peaceful life. A tender influence conspired to the same end, and imparts a dash of romance to his story. He was engaged to be married in the following June, and intended then to retire from the army. Alas! June had a far different fate in store for him.

At our interview in the afternoon, as well as in the midnight consultation, Andrews impressed me as a man who combined intellect and refinement with the most dauntless courage. Yet his pensive manner, slow speech, and soft voice indicated not obscurely what I afterwards found to be almost his only fault as a leader,—a hesitancy in deciding important questions on the spur of the moment, and in backing his decision by prompt, vigorous action. This did not detract from his value as a secret agent when alone, for then all his actions were premeditated and accomplished with surpassing coolness and bravery; but it was otherwise in commanding men in startling and unforeseen emergencies. This trait of character will be more fully developed in the course of the story.

How were the soldiers selected who assembled that evening at the rendezvous? This question was asked with curiosity and wonder by the enemy, and is of great importance in estimating the treatment of such of their number as were afterwards captured. The enemy could not, by their utmost exertions, obtain correct information on this subject; but there is now no reason for reticence. The nature of the enterprise was such that it could not be publicly explained and volunteers called for, as it was quite possible that spies of the enemy were in our camp; neither was it right, according to the laws of war, to divest soldiers of their uniform and place them under the orders of a spy without their full consent. A medium course was adopted, which avoided the opposite difficulties as far as possible. The captains who were ordered to furnish each a man gathered a few of their soldiers about them in a quiet way, and stated that a volunteer was wanted for a very dangerous enterprise. Of those who professed willingness to go one was selected, taken aside from the others, and told simply that he was to be sent disguised into the heart of the enemy's country, under the orders of a Southern citizen, whom the commanding officers trusted fully. If they felt like engaging in this service, with all its risks, they could see this man and learn more; but if not, they would be at liberty to decline the dangerous honor. In one or two cases these preliminary explanations were so vague that the men addressed did not fairly understand the matter, and subsequently declared that if they had been more fully informed they would not have taken the first step. After they met Andrews, however, they felt that their reputation was at stake, and were not willing to "back out." In one or two other cases the men were merely selected by their captains and ordered, without any preliminary explanations, to report to Andrews outside of the lines.

Twenty-four men were thus detailed, twenty-three of whom met at the rendezvous. The twenty-fourth we never heard of; whether he tried to reach us and failed, or whether some one of the captains who was to furnish a man was unable to induce any one to accept the dangerous honor, is uncertain. Indeed, there must have been a failure of two men, for we had one with us who was not originally expected to go. Captain Mitchel had one man to furnish, and Perry G. Shadrach was chosen. William Campbell, a native of Salineville, Ohio, but for many years a citizen of Kentucky, a man of wild and adventurous habits, was visiting Shadrach, and at once asked and obtained permission to go with him. Though he was only a civilian, we always spoke of him as an enlisted soldier of Captain Mitchel's company.

While we are splashing along in the darkness and under the fast-falling rain, it may be a good time to describe the members of the squad with whom I travelled. Shadrach and Campbell were two of its members. The former was small but roundly built, a merry, reckless fellow, often profane, easily put out of temper, but very kind, and willing to sacrifice anything for a friend. Campbell was physically the strongest man of the whole party and possibly of Mitchel's division as well. He weighed two hundred and twenty pounds, was perfectly proportioned, very active, apparently fond of danger for its own sake, and as true as steel. Neither of these two men possessed much skill in duplicity or shrewdness in planning. They were willing to leave the task of asking and answering questions to their comrades, but were always ready to bear their full share in action.

The third, George D. Wilson, of Cincinnati, was of very different character. He was not highly educated, though he had read a great deal, but in natural shrewdness I have rarely, if ever, known his equal. He was of middle age, whilst most of us had just passed out of boyhood. He had traveled extensively, and had observed and remembered everything he encountered. In the use of fiery and scorching denunciations he was a master, and took great delight in overwhelming an opponent with an unmeasured torrent of abuse. In action he was brave and cool; no danger could frighten him, no emergency find him unprepared. The friendship I felt for him grew steadily until his tragic death. I depended on his judgment and advice more than on that of any one in the whole expedition.

The writer was first corporal in Company G of the Second Regiment of Ohio Volunteers, and had just been promoted to the position of sergeant. I was twenty-two years of age, a native of Jefferson County, Ohio, had been reared on a farm, had taught school in the winters, and more recently had entered on the study of law. My opportunities for acquiring knowledge were very limited, but had been tolerably well improved. I had read a good many volumes and gained a fair English education. For war and warlike affairs I had not the slightest taste, and was indeed so near-sighted that it was very doubtful whether I could ever make an efficient soldier. When the call for three months' troops was made at the bombardment of Fort Sumter, I felt that the emergency was so great as to require the services of every patriot, and immediately enlisted. I did not then contemplate a longer term of service, as I believed that the government would be able to organize an adequate force within that period from those who were better adapted to the profession of arms. My decision to enter the ranks was not made without some forethought. Just previous to putting my name to the enlistment paper, I took a solitary night walk and tried to bring up in imagination all the perils and discomforts that were possible in military service, asking myself whether I was willing to endure any of them that might fall to my lot as the result of the step I then contemplated. Having decided, I returned to the mass-meeting (convened in the court-house of Steubenville, Ohio) and entered my name as a volunteer. The company formed that night was hurried to Washington, and on the route was organized with others into the Second Ohio Regiment. During the three months' service our only experience of fighting was in the badly-managed battle, or rather skirmish, of Bull Run. On the battle-field, when the tide of fortune turned against us, I concluded that I ought to re-enlist for two reasons. It was hard to quit the army with no experience but that of defeat, and the country's need of men was still urgent. When the Second Ohio was reorganized for three years' service, I therefore continued in the ranks. We were sent to Eastern Kentucky, and succeeded, after some trifling engagements, in clearing that part of the State from rebels. We were then ordered to Louisville, and greatly to my delight were put under the command of the astronomer Mitchel. A few years before I had studied astronomy enthusiastically, and had even gone so far as to construct a ten-foot telescope for my own use. This similarity of tastes led me to feel greatly delighted, and almost acquainted, with our new general. His fame as an astronomer did not guarantee his success in war; but the ability displayed in one profession was a hopeful indication for the other. Our division participated in the advance upon Bowling Green and afterwards upon Nashville. This service offered no hardship except wintry marches, for the capture of Fort Donelson by General Grant had broken the enemy's resistance. During this march there was not perfect accord between Mitchel and his less energetic superior, General Buell. Even the soldiers learned something of their disputes, and were much gratified when, at Nashville, Mitchel was detached from the main army and left to operate independently. In three days he marched to Murfreesborough, where this narrative opens.

WILLIAM PITTENGER. [1882—twenty years later.] Page 42.

On parting from Andrews we worked our way eastward, keeping not far from the railroad leading to Wartrace. We did not wish to travel very far through the rain, which was almost pouring down, but only to get well beyond the Federal pickets, so as to have a clear track for a long journey on the following day. We wished to elude our own pickets, not only to avoid detention, but to gain a little practice in such work. It was our intention to get that night beyond Wartrace, where our last outpost in that direction was stationed; but our progress was so slow and fatiguing that we changed our minds, and determined to find a lodging at once. This resolution was more easily made than accomplished.

For a long time we searched in vain. It seemed as if the country was uninhabited. At length the barking of a dog gave a clue, which was diligently followed. The better to prosecute the search, we formed a line within hearing distance of each other, and then swept around in all directions. A barn was our first discovery, but we were so completely wet and chilled that we resolved to persevere in hope of a bed and a fire.

Shortly after, finding a rude, double log house, we roused the inmates and demanded shelter for the night. The farmer was evidently alarmed, but let us in, and then began to investigate our character.

I narrate minutely the events that accompanied our first setting out, not so much for their intrinsic interest, as for the sake of giving a vivid idea of the conduct required by the nature of our expedition. This may also be a good place to answer a question often asked, "How can the equivocation and downright falsehood that follows be justified?" I am not bound to attempt any formal justification; but it is easy to show that all the moral question involved is only a branch of the larger question as to the morality of war. In its very nature, war is compounded of force and fraud in nearly equal quantities. If one of the necessary ingredients be wrong, the other can hardly be right. The most conscientious general thinks nothing of making movements with the sole purpose of deceiving his adversary, or of writing absolutely false despatches for the same purpose. If it be right to kill our fellow-beings, I suppose it is also right to deceive them in order to get a better chance to kill them! The golden rule, which is the basis of all morality, has but little place as between hostile armies or nations. To find where some unsuspecting persons are asleep, and steal upon them, begin to shoot and stab before they can wake to defend themselves, would, in peace, be thought a crime of the most dastardly and ferocious character; but, in war, it is only a surprise, and, if successful, confers the greatest honor upon those who plan and execute it. Are there two sets of morals,—the one for peace, the other for war? "But," the objector may continue, "is not a constant resort to falsehood in a secret expedition peculiarly dishonorable?" Let us look this question fairly in the face. All armies employ spies, and the old adage, "The receiver is as bad as the thief," is here fully applicable. A general who induces a man, by the hope of money or promotion, to go disguised into the enemy's lines, with a lie in his mouth, for the general's advantage, is a full partner in the enterprise, and cannot throw off his share of the guilt. It is true that the laws of war throw all the odium on the spy. But the generals, and not the spies, made the laws of war. Besides, there is no necessary connection between the laws of war and the laws of morality. The former are merely the rules men construct for the regulation of the most tremendous of all their games, and can never affect the essence of right and wrong. I do not wish to argue the abstract right of deceiving an enemy, or of deviating from the strict truth for any purpose whatever. It is enough for my purpose to show that deception is an element in all war. The candid reader will also consider that most of us were very young. The common sentiment of the camp was that deceiving a rebel in any manner was a meritorious action. With the full sanction of our officers, we had entered upon an expedition which required disguise and deception. We had been expressly told that we were not even to hesitate in joining the rebel army,—which implied taking the oath of allegiance to the Confederacy,—if that step became necessary to avoid detection. In the whole of this expedition we were true to each other and to the mission upon which we had entered, but we did not hesitate at any kind or degree of untruthfulness directed towards the enemy. Such was the effect of our resolution in this direction that no one, so far as I remember, ever expressed any sorrow or remorse for any of the falsehoods that were so plentifully employed. Indeed, while the war lasted, I did not find a single person, in the army or out, who ever criticised our expedition from the moral stand-point. There seemed to be some kind of an instinctive feeling that the revolted States had forfeited all their rights by rebellion,—even that of having the truth told to them. I confess that deception was very painful to me at first, and from inclination, as well as policy, I used it as sparingly as possible. But practice made it comparatively easy and pleasant, within the limits indicated above.

We did not wait for all these reasonings before we began to practise deception upon our host. He was informed that we were Kentuckians, disgusted with the tyranny of the Lincoln government, and seeking an asylum in the free and independent South. His reply was a grateful surprise. "Oh," said he, "you come on a bootless errand, and might as well go home again and make the best of it. The whole South will soon be as much under Lincoln as Kentucky is."

"Never!" we answered. "We'll fight till we die, first!"

At this the old man chuckled quietly, but only said, "Well, we'll see, we'll see." We found him to be an enthusiastic Union man, but firmly maintained our own assumed character. He provided us with a good supper, late as it was, and with good beds, which we refused to occupy until he had promised not to betray us to the Union pickets.

The next morning we were early on our way, reaching Wartrace in the midst of a pelting storm. Attempting to pass directly through, our soldiers on guard were too vigilant for us, and we enjoyed another opportunity for "diplomacy," in the endeavor to represent ourselves as innocent citizens from the adjoining country. But it was more difficult to deceive our own men than the enemy, and, to avoid detection, we were obliged to reveal our true character, which secured our immediate release.

We plodded onward through the deep mud and splashing roads, and were now outside our own lines. Our only safety, from this time, lay in our disguise and in our false tongues. We felt not unlike the landsman who for the first time loses sight of the shore, and feels the heaving of the broad ocean under his feet. To the average Northern citizen a vague mystery and terror had rested over the whole of the Southern States, even before the beginning of the war. During the existence of slavery no Northern man dared make his home in the presence of that institution and express any views unfavorable to it. Many tales of violence and blood were reported from that region long before hostilities began, and as the passions which led to the contest grew more fierce, the shadows still deepened. When war began the curtain fell, and only reports of wild and desperate enthusiasm in behalf of the cause of disunion and slavery, with stories of the most cruel oppression of the few who dared to differ with the ruling class in still loving the old flag, reached Northern ears. No doubt there were many exaggerations, but there was a solid basis of fact. The South was swept with a revolutionary frenzy equal to any that history recalls, and the people were ready to sacrifice any one whose life seemed dangerous to their cause. Even exaggeration was potent as truth in aiding to invest the region beyond the Union lines with mysterious horror. Into this land of peril and fear and frequent outrage we were plunging as the secret but deadly enemies of the whole people. Now, when Chattanooga and Atlanta are brought into such easy communication with Northern cities, it is difficult to recall the feelings with which they were regarded in the dark days of eighteen hundred and sixty-two. But hope and courage outweighed apprehension in our hearts, and we pushed rapidly forward.

Others of our party were occasionally seen trudging along in the dreary rain, and sometimes we went with them a little way, but mostly we kept by ourselves. Shortly after noon we crossed Duck River, and entered Manchester, stopping just long enough to get the names of some of the prominent secessionists along our proposed route, that we might always have some one to inquire for, and be recommended from one influential man to another. Nightfall this evening (Tuesday) found us still several miles from Hillsborough, and we began to fear that we would be behind time in reaching our destination. Each one was weary and stiff, but we resolved to make every effort, and, if necessary, travel a whole night rather than be too late. I have always been sorry that this night journey was not required of us.

At the place where we lodged that night I first heard a slave-holder talk of hunting negroes with blood-hounds. In conversation after supper our host said to us, as a mere matter of news, "I saw some persons dodging about the back of the plantation just as it was getting dark, and in the morning I will take the hounds and go out and hunt them up. I will be glad to have you go along and see the sport, if you can afford the time. If they prove to be negroes I will make something."

"What will you do with them?" I asked.

"Oh, turn them over to the authorities and get the reward," was the answer. "I have caught a considerable number, and it pays to keep on the lookout."

Of course we had to agree outwardly; but the idea of hunting human beings with the ferocious-looking dogs we had seen about his door, and that for money, thrilled me with detestation and horror. Soon afterwards we found that blood-hounds were not kept for negroes alone.

After a sound night's rest we continued our journey, and were fortunate enough to find a man who was willing, for the good of the Confederacy, and for an extravagant price in money, to give us a short ride. The conveyance was an old wagon, with a wood-rack for a bed, four mules, with a scanty chain harness, ropes for bridles and lines, a driver black as ebony, who rode the lead mule, with a straw bag for a saddle, and flourished a fine black-snake whip,—the latter the only really good article in the whole "turnout." Seven or eight of our party were now together, and we rattled merrily over the stony road, holding on to the sides of the old wood-rack, and agreeing that this was much better than walking. About the middle of the forenoon we came in sight of the Cumberland Mountains. It was now Wednesday, our second day outside of our own lines.

Never have I beheld more beautiful scenery. For a short time the rain ceased to fall and the air became clear. The mountains shone in the freshest green, and about their tops clung a soft, shadowy mist, gradually descending lower, and shrouding one after another of the spurs and high mountain valleys from view. But the beautiful scene did not long continue. Soon the mist deepened into cloud, and the interminable rain began again to fall. To add to our discontent, our wagon could go no farther, and we once more waded in the mud.

At noon we found a dinner of the coarsest fare at a miserable one-roomed hut. One of our men, not belonging, however, to the squad I usually travelled with, managed to get possession of a bottle of apple-brandy, which he used so freely as to become very talkative. He was placed between two others, who kept him from all communication with strangers, and walked him rapidly on until he became sober. This was the only instance of such dangerous imprudence in the whole journey.

From the personal narrative of J. Alfred Wilson, who was with us by this time, I will make frequent extracts, though by no means always indorsing his opinions as to military affairs, or the hopefulness of our enterprise. He was a man of great resolution and endurance, though by no means of hopeful temper. He says,—

"Not till fairly away from the sight of the old flag and of our regiments, and entirely within the enemy's line, could we begin to realize the great responsibility we had incurred. To begin with, we had cast aside our uniforms and put on citizen's clothes, and assumed all the penalties that, in military usage, the word spy implies, which is death the world over. Again, our mission was such that concealment was impossible. We were sure to arouse the whole Confederacy and invoke the brutal vengeance of its frenzied leaders in case we did not make good our escape after doing our work. The military spy, in the ordinary line of his duty, is not compelled to expose himself to detection. On the contrary, he conceals, in every possible way, his identity. This we could do until in the heart of the enemy's country, the very place where we would be in the greatest danger."

Some of the groups fell into the natural error of overdoing their part, and by the very violence with which they denounced the United States government excited suspicion. One party of five or six made a narrow escape from this kind of danger. Their talk was too extravagant and their answers to some questions somewhat contradictory. As none but citizens were then present, no objections were made to their statements; but a company of rebel guerillas was secretly summoned, and they were pursued. The guerillas arrived at a house where this party had passed the night but a few moments after they had resumed their journey in the morning. The pursuit was continued; but growing somewhat weary, and receiving more reassuring accounts of the travellers ahead, the chase was abandoned, and our comrades escaped.

Two others of our number were less fortunate. They became involved in the same manner, were followed, overtaken, and arrested. They told their Kentucky story in vain, but as they professed their willingness to enlist in the rebel army, that privilege was granted them. They were sent to the nearest post and duly sworn in. Not long afterwards they took the step that had been in their minds at the hour of enlistment by endeavoring to desert. One of them succeeded, but the other was arrested, and had to suffer a long and severe imprisonment. Finally, however, he was sent back to camp, and his next attempt at desertion was more successful.

In conversation my own group was careful to take a very moderate though decided Southern tone. It was agreed that Wilson and myself should, as far as possible, do all the talking when in the presence of the enemy. On entering towns it was our custom to go directly to the street corners and the groceries, inquire for the latest news, tell our Kentucky story as often as it seemed necessary, deny some of the reports of Union outrages and confirm others, assuring the bystanders that the Yankees were not half so bad as reported, and especially that they would fight, as otherwise they would never have conquered our great State of Kentucky, and then demand, in the name of the common cause of the South, direction and assistance on our way. We thus acquired much information, and were never once suspected. It is my deliberate opinion that we could have travelled from Richmond to New Orleans in the same manner at that period of the war.

A little way out from our camp Dorsey met a man who seemed to be a Southern spy, and on the strength of this suspicion was strongly tempted to shoot him to prevent the irreparable harm he might do us. A little watching, however, partly dispelled first impressions. The same man afterwards offered Wilson a liberal reward to pilot him over the mountains, and actually claimed to be a Confederate spy. Wilson kept with him for a time and watched him narrowly, but became convinced that he had not the least suspicion of our expedition. He allowed him, therefore, to go on his way in peace. It is possible that he was not what he pretended, any more than we ourselves were Kentucky citizens. This man was met once more in Chattanooga, but then disappeared.

As we were mounting the first spurs of the Cumberland Mountains we encountered a Confederate soldier from the East, who was then at home on a furlough. He had been in many battles, among them the battle of Bull Run, which he described minutely. Little did he think that I, too, had been there, as we laughed together at the wild panic of the fugitive Yankees. He was greatly delighted to see so many Kentuckians coming out on the right side in the great struggle, and contrasted our conduct with that of some mean-spirited persons in his own neighborhood who were so foolish and depraved as to still sympathize with the abolitionists.

When we parted he grasped my hand with tears in his eyes, and said he hoped "the time would soon come when we would be comrades, fighting side by side in one glorious cause!" My heart revolted from the hypocrisy I was compelled to use, but having begun there was no possibility of turning back. We clambered up the mountain till the top was reached; then across the level summit for six miles; then down again by an unfrequented road over steep rocks, yawning chasms, and great gullies cut out by recent rains. This rough jaunt led us down into Battle Creek, which is a picturesque valley opening out into the Tennessee, and hemmed in by projecting ranges of lofty mountains. As we descended the slopes, a countryman we had overtaken told me how the valley had obtained its name. The legend is very romantic, and probably truthful.

There was an Indian war between two neighboring tribes in early times. One of them made a plundering expedition into the territory of the other, and after securing their booty retreated homeward. They were promptly pursued, and traced to this valley. The pursuers believed them to be concealed within its rocky limits, and to make their capture sure divided their force into two bands, each of which crept along the steep opposite sides towards the head of the valley. It was early in the morning, and as they worked their way cautiously along the mountain mist rolled downward as we had seen it do that morning, and enveloped each of the parties in its folds. Determined not to be foiled, they kept on, and meeting at the head of the valley, each supposed the other to be the foe. They poured in their fire, and a deadly conflict ensued. Not till the greater number of their braves had fallen did the survivors discover their sad mistake; then they slowly and sorrowfully retreated to their wigwams. The plunderers, who had listened to their conflict in safety, being higher up the mountain, were left to bear off their booty in triumph.

But we had little leisure for legendary tales. We rested for the night with a wealthy secessionist, whom our soldier friend on the mountains had designated as "the right kind of a man." He received us with open arms, and shared the best his house afforded. We spent the evening in denouncing the policy of the Federal government and in exchanging views as to the prospects of the war. Among other topics I happened to mention an expatriation law which, as I had learned from a newspaper paragraph, had been passed by the Kentucky Legislature a few weeks before. This law only made the reasonable provision that all persons going South to join the rebel army should lose their rights of State citizenship. The old man thought this to be an act of unparalleled oppression; and in the morning, before we were out of bed, he came into our room and requested some of us to write down that infamous law that he might be able to give his Union neighbors a convincing proof of Yankee wickedness! We complied, and all signed our names as witnesses. No doubt that document was long the theme of angry discussion in many a mountain cabin.

So thoroughly did we maintain our assumed character in this instance, that three days after, when the culmination of our enterprise came to the Confederates like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky, it was impossible to make our host believe that his guests were among the adventurers. This we learned from a Union man to whom he had shown a copy of the terrible expatriation law!

We were still more than forty miles distant from Chattanooga on this Wednesday evening, and were due at that place by five o'clock the next day. On each of the two preceding days we had measured about thirty miles,—a good rate of speed, but not sufficient. We had formed the resolution of taking a night journey of ten or fifteen miles, but before starting after supper, another squad arrived and managed to tell us that they had seen Andrews and been informed that the grand enterprise was postponed one day. This was a great relief, for it was hard to tear away from our comfortable quarters; but this delay was a serious mistake. In all combined movements in war, time is of prime importance. On the appointed Friday success would have been easy; on Saturday—but we must not anticipate.

Andrews had also caused the advice to be passed along the line that it would be better to attempt to cross the Tennessee at some point far west of Chattanooga, and taking passage on the Memphis and Charleston Railroad, endeavor to pass through Chattanooga by rail. He had heard of stringent orders being issued against any one crossing the river near this town without a pass. Farther down the stream these orders might not apply, or, in case of necessity, a raft might be constructed among the wooded mountains, and a passage obtained by that means.

About noon of the next day we came to Jasper, and spent a short time in the principal grocery of the place talking over the state of the country. We informed the idlers that there would soon be a mighty uprising of Kentuckians in favor of the Southern cause, but professed ignorance of the movements of Mitchel's army. In return we received the first vague reports of the battle of Pittsburg Landing. It was the impression that the Union army was totally destroyed, thousands of men being slain, and innumerable cannon captured. One countryman assured me that five hundred Yankee gunboats had been sunk! I ventured to suggest a doubt as to the Yankees having so many, but was not able to shake his faith.

The same night we reached the banks of the Tennessee, directly south of Jasper, and lodged at the house of a Mrs. Hall. A flat-boat owned by one of the neighbors was used as a ferry-boat, and arrangements were made for setting us on the other side of the stream early in the morning. The evening spent here was very enjoyable. Others of our party came in, and among them Andrews himself. After a good supper, we were all assigned to the best room, which had a roaring wood-fire in an open chimney, and two large beds in the corners. We met without any outward sign of recognition, but rapidly became acquainted. Each acted according to his own nature. The bountiful supper and the cheerful fire greatly refreshed us after the labor of the day. My companion, Shadrach, was soon acknowledged as the wit of the party, and received perpetual applause for his mirthful sallies. Andrews was silent, but appeared to greatly enjoy the fun. Dorsey, who had great forethought and prudence, and had decided that it was good policy, even among his comrades, to appear as ignorant as possible, felt highly complimented when told that his group had been described to some of the others who followed as "a party of country Jakes." Wilson gave us all the information wanted on every possible subject. Songs were sung, stories were told, and as the family formed part of the fireside company, many of the incidents may not have been quite authentic. Late at night this social evening's entertainment closed. It was the more highly appreciated as it was the first opportunity most of us had enjoyed of becoming acquainted with our leader and with each other.

In the morning Andrews started up the river on horseback. The flat-boat was bailed out, and we were just entering it, when a mounted man appeared and handed the ferryman an order forbidding him to allow any one to cross the river at his ferry for three days. We tried to get an exception made in our favor, as we had contracted with him the evening before, but he was unwilling to assume the risk. The messenger gave us the reason for the order, and a most interesting piece of news it was. General Mitchel was moving rapidly southward for some unknown object, and it was desirable on that account to stop all intercourse with the country beyond the river. The messenger volunteered the comforting assurance that "these brave Kentuckians will no doubt find a warm welcome at Chattanooga," and gave us the best directions in his power for reaching that point. We concealed our disappointment, and as soon as we were alone debated as to the best course to be taken. Two alternatives only were open. One was to build or seize a raft or boat and cross in defiance of the order. This was easy enough in the night, but in daytime it would be very hazardous, and that day, until five o'clock in the afternoon, was the only time at our disposal. We therefore took the only remaining course, and dispersing, hurried over the mountains towards Chattanooga.

Our journey was far from pleasant, as the rocky mountain-spurs here sweep directly down to the bank of this very crooked river. Several times we lost our way in the entanglements of the woods, but at length reached a valley that ran down to the Tennessee directly opposite Chattanooga. The road was now more frequented, and we talked freely with travellers, for all fear of being detected by those we chanced to meet had long since been dissipated.

One countryman related a very interesting item of news from the war in the East. It was to the effect that the Confederate iron-clad "Merrimac" had one day steamed out into the harbor of Fortress Monroe, and after engaging the Union "Monitor" for some hours, with no decisive result, had run alongside of her opponent, and throwing grappling-irons on board, had towed her ashore, where she, of course, fell an easy prey. This may serve as a specimen of the kind of news we perpetually heard while in the Confederate States.

Quite a number of persons—many of them of our own party—were waiting on the banks of the Tennessee River. The assemblage of so many of us on that side of the river was very unfortunate, as it materially increased the risk of discovery; but a very high wind was blowing, and the ferryman feared to risk his little shackly "horse-boat" on the turbulent stream. Our time was nearly exhausted, and we could not afford to wait very long. We urged the boatman very strenuously to set us over at once, but he wished to delay until the wind fell. Nothing as yet had been said to us about passes, but this was explained mentally by the conjecture that there was a guard on the other side, whose inspection we would be obliged to pass,—a more formidable ordeal than we had yet encountered. When requests for a speedy passage failed to move the ferryman, we changed our tactics, and talked in his hearing of the cowardice of Tennessee boatmen as contrasted with Kentuckians, or even the Ohio Yankees. When twelve or sixteen men deliberately attempt to make one man angry, they can generally succeed. The boatman soon tired of our raillery, and, entering his boat, told us to come on and show what we could do by lending him a hand, adding that he would put us over or drown us, he did not care much which. The invitation was promptly accepted, and by pushing with poles and pulling on the limbs of overhanging trees we moved up the stream to a point judged most favorable, and swung out into the waves. The ride was short and not without danger, but the peril on the other side was so much greater that we had little thought to give to the passage. "How should we meet and deceive the guard?" This was the important question. Our surprise was almost equal to our delight when we landed and found no one to bar our progress. The explanation was perfectly simple. The guard had not been placed that afternoon because it was not believed that any one would attempt to cross in the storm. Wondering at our good fortune, we hurried to the cars, and were in time to procure tickets for Marietta before the departure of the train, which was crowded with passengers, many of them Confederate soldiers. In such a crowd it was easy to avoid notice.

Every seat in the cars was filled, and we had to be contented with standing room. The fumes of whiskey and tobacco were very strong. Talking was loud and incessant, and turned mostly upon the great battle of Shiloh, the accounts of which were by no means so extravagant as at first, though a great victory was still claimed. We took part in the conversation freely, judging this to be the best way of maintaining our assumed disguise. No general system of passports had been brought into use, at least in this part of the South, and railway travel was entirely unrestricted.

The sun was about an hour high when we glided out of the depot, and it soon sank to rest behind the hills of Georgia. The time for our perilous attempt drew near. There was some diversity of opinion among the members of the party, as revealed by conversations both before and after, as to the prospects of success. The most of us felt some solicitude, but were far more hopeful than when we left camp. So many incidents had occurred substantially as they had been planned, that trust in the foresight of our leader, with the assurance that all would come out right, was greatly strengthened. The first feeling of strangeness which followed our plunge into the enemy's country had given way to confidence in the impenetrability of our mental disguise. For my own part I scarcely felt a doubt of success. It seemed to me that a dozen modes of escape were open in the improbable event of failure. I saw the dangers surrounding us clearly, but none of them now appeared more formidable than when I first asked Colonel Harris the privilege of joining the expedition. There were many bridges on the road we passed over, and we could not help picturing our return on the morrow and the vengeance we proposed wreaking on them. Darkness closed in, and on we went amid the oaths and laughter of the rebels, many of whom were very much intoxicated. I procured a seat on the coal-box and gave myself up to the thoughts suggested by the hour. There was now no need of trying to keep up conversation with those around. Visions of former days and friends—dear friends, both around the camp-fires and the hearths of home, whom I might never see again—floated before me. I also heard much talk of the merits of different States and regiments in the contest, and many discussions of the conscript law, which was just now coming into force. The opinion of the greater number of the soldiers seemed to be that while the provisions of the law were right in compelling all to take a part in the burdens of the conflict, yet that it would be of but little service, as the unwilling soldiers, who were thus forced into the ranks, would be no match for volunteers. Little did they imagine that in this terrible law their rulers had found a weapon which would enable them to repulse the Northern armies at every point, and protract the war for three years longer!