Chapter 2
Chapter 2 of Daring and Suffering, A History of the Great Railroad Adventure by William Pittenger. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 2 We now proceeded on our way, not rejoicing, for our situation grew every moment more perplexing. Darkness was falling rapidly, and not one of our comrades was visible.
We were almost certain we had taken the wrong road. Finally, we resolved to retrace our steps and endeavor to obtain some clue to our journey, or if we could not, to return to camp. For, without instruction, we knew not how or where to go. We therefore retraced our steps till in sight of Shelbyville, and then, sure that none could pass without our knowledge, we waited nearly an hour longer. Our patience was rewarded. A few, whom we
recognized as belonging to our party, came along the road. We fell in with them, and were soon overtaken by others, among whom was Andrews. Now all was right. Soon we were as far from Shelbyville as Ross and I had been when alone, and a few hundred yards further on we found the remainder of our comrades. In a little thicket of dead and withered trees, sufficiently open to assure us that no listening ear was near, we halted, and Andrews revealed to us his plans. There were 23
gathered around him. Twenty-four had been detailed, but from some cause one had failed to report. In low tones, amid the darkness, he gave us the details of the romantic expedition. We were to break up in small squads of three or four and travel as far south as Chattanooga. If questioned, we were to answer so as to avoid exciting suspicion and tell any plausible tale that might answer our purpose. We were to travel rapidly and, if possible, reach Chattanooga on
Thursday evening at 5 o'clock. This was Monday, and the distance was 103 miles, a heavy travel on foot. But then we were allowed to hire conveyances if we could. Andrews then gave us some Confederate money to bear our expenses, and we parted. There were three others with me, P.G. Shadrach of Company K. 2nd Ohio, a merry, reckless fellow, but at heart noble and generous, William Campbell, a citizen of Kentucky, who had received permission to come with us in a soldier's place. He was a man
of 220 pounds weight, handsome as Apollo, and of immense physical strength, which he was not slow to use when roused, though good-natured and clever in the main. The third was the most remarkable man of the whole party. He was not educated highly, though he had read a great deal, but in natural shrewdness I rarely, if ever, saw his equal. He had traveled extensively over the United States, had observed everything, and remembered all he observed. Had he lived, the composition of this
book would have been in abler hands than mine. In addition to this, he excelled, perhaps, even Parson Brownlow, in the fiery and scorching denunciation he could hurl on the head of an opponent. In action, he was brave and cool. No danger could frighten him, no emergency find him unprepared. These were my companions. The rain had begun to fall slightly as we walked out the railroad on our route, and soon it increased to torrents. The night was pitchy dark, and we
stumbled along, falling into gutters here and nearly sticking in the mud there, until midnight, when we resolved to seek shelter from the storm. For a long time, we could find no indication of a house until at last the barking of a dog gave us a clue. After some dispute as to which side of the road it was on, we struck off over a field. Our only guide were the random flashes of lightning that gave us a momentary view of the country around. The better to prosecute our search,
we formed a line within hearing distance of each other and thus swept around in all directions. At last we found a barn, but were so wet and chilly that we resolved to hunt on in the hope of finding a fire and a bed. After a still more tedious search, we found the goal of our wishes. It was a rude, double-log house. Here we roused up the inmates and demanded a shelter for the night. The man of the house was evidently alarmed, but let us in and then commenced questioning us as
to who we were. We told him we were Kentuckians who were disgusted by the tyranny of the Lincoln government and were seeking asylum in the free and independent South. Oh, said he, you come on a bootless errand and had better go back home, for I have no doubt the whole of the South will soon be as much under Lincoln as Kentucky is. Never, we answered. We will fight till we die first. At this, the old man chuckled quietly and only said, well, we'll see, we'll see, which closed
the discussion. We were truly glad to find a union man under such circumstances, but did not dare to reveal our true character to him, and he probably believes to this day that he harbored some chivalric southerners. However, he provided us with a good supper and a comfortable bed, promising also not to inform the federal pickets on us. The next morning, the sky for a time was clear, but it soon became overcast, and we were once again compelled to suffer the inevitable drenching
that befell us every day of this dreary journey. We reached Wartrace in the midst of a pelting storm. At first we intended to go around the town, as it was the last station on our picket line. It was raining so hard that we thought we would not be interrupted in passing through it, but our guards were too vigilant for us. They stopped us, and after being for some time detained and trying to play off the innocent southern citizen, as hundreds do, we were obliged to
reveal our true character to the commanding officer of the post, which of course secured our release. Then again we traveled onward for a time, wading the swollen creeks and plodding through the mud as fast as we could. We were now outside of our lines, with nothing to trust to but the tender mercies of the rebels. Soon after we found what a slender ground of trust that was, but now we were safe in the completeness of our disguise. We met many others of our party,
and trudged along, sometimes in company with them, but oftener alone. Toward evening, we reached Manchester, crossed Duck River, which was at flood height, and entered the town. Here we found the population in a wild ferment, and on inquiring the cause, learned that some of the citizens had reported an approaching band of Yankee cavalry, and that they were even now visible from the public Square. We repaired thither with all speed to witness the novel spectacle of the entrance of
national troops into a hostile town from a southern point of view. Mingled were the emotions expressed. Fear was most prominent, but I thought I could detect on some countenances a half-concealed smile of exultation. Soon the terrible band loomed up over the hill which bounded the view, when lo, the dreaded enemies were seen to be only a party of Negroes, who had been working in the coal mines in the mountains somewhere. Some of Mitchell's men had destroyed the works and the contrabands
were brought here for safekeeping. The feelings of the chivalry may be better examined than described as they dispersed with curses on the whole African race. We here obtained from some of the citizens the names of the most prominent secessionists along the route we were to travel, who would be most likely to help us onto that blissful land where we might enjoy our rights in peace undisturbed by even dreams of abolitionists. These names were a great advantage to us,
because always having someone to inquire for and being recommended from one influential man to another, it was taken for granted that we were trustworthy characters and few questions asked. That night we were within a few miles of Hillsboro, but so much were we delayed by the rain that we began to fear we could not reach our destination in time. My feet, too, were sore from the gravel and dirt that filled my shoes and crossing the creeks and wading through the mud, and already
we were weary and stiff from traveling in the wet. But we resolved to press on and, if necessary, to travel in the night, too, rather than miss our appointment. Where we stayed that night, I first heard from the lips of a slave owner himself of hunting negroes with bloodhounds. Our host said he had seen someone dodging around the back of his plantation by the edge of the woods, just as it was getting dark, and in the morning he would take his bloodhounds and go to hunt him up,
and if it proved to be a negro, he would get the reward. He said he had caught great numbers of them and seemed to regard it as a highly profitable business. We, of course, had to agree with him, but I well remember that the idea of hunting human beings with bloodhounds for money sent a thrill of horror and detestation through my veins. Not long after, we found that bloodhounds
were not for Negroes alone. The next morning, we continued our journey, and after walking three miles, found a man who agreed, for an exorbitant price and for the good of the Confederacy, to give us conveyance and a wagon for a few miles. This was a great help to us, and as we trotted briskly along, we soon came in sight of the Cumberland Mountains. Never did I behold more beautiful scenery. The rain had for a short time ceased to fall and the air was clear. The mountains shone
in the freshest green and around their tops, just high enough to veil their loftiest summits, clung a soft shadowy mist gradually descending lower, 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 again the interminable rain began to fall. To add to our discomforts, our wagon would go no further, and once more we trudged along afoot. At noon, we stopped for dinner
at a house belonging to one of the sand hillers. This is the general name applied to the poor class of whites at the south. They have no property of their own and live in small hovels on the worst portions of the lands of the rich. Here they lead an ignorant, lazy life, devoting most of their time to hunting and fishing, only raising a little patch of corn to furnish their bread. They are almost as completely owned by their landlords as the slaves, and are compelled to vote as their
masters choose. On the social scale they are no higher than any slave, nor do they deserve to be, for their intelligence is less. The term sandhiller, or clay eater, is a terrible one of reproach, and is applied unsparingly by the aristocrats. Of course, our entertainment here was composed of rather rude fare, but we ate the half-ground and half-baked cornbread with the strong pork and went on our way rejoicing. End of chapter two, read by Elsie Selwyn.
