Read Ebook: Escape from east Tennessee to the federal lines by Ragan R A

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 199 lines and 17249 words, and 4 pages

ESCAPE

FROM

EAST TENNESSEE

THE FEDERAL LINES.

THE HISTORY, GIVEN AS NEARLY AS POSSIBLE, BY CAPTAIN R. A. RAGAN OF HIS INDIVIDUAL EXPERIENCES DURING THE WAR OF THE REBELLION FROM 1861 TO 1864.

ILLUSTRATED.

WASHINGTON, D. C. JAMES H. DONY, PUBLISHER. 1910.

Copyright 1910, by R. A. RAGAN.

INTRODUCTION.

I lay no claim to literary attainments, but undertake to tell in simple words the story of my experiences, hardships and sufferings, lying out in the cold weather many nights, trying to make my way across the mountains and rivers to Kentucky, where the Union Army was encamped.

There have been a number of books written since the Civil War, dealing with the loyalty, heroism and suffering of the Union people of East Tennessee during that period, but few men have given their individual experience from 1861 to 1864.

I am, so far as I can ascertain, the only East Tennessee pilot living. I give the following names of those who piloted Union men through the lines: Daniel Ellis, James Lane, A. C. Fondren, James Kinser and David Fry. These men have all died since the War, except James Lane, who was killed at the foot of the Cumberland Mountain, in Powell's Valley, while conveying men to Kentucky.

R. A. R.

ESCAPE FROM EAST TENNESSEE

I was born in Greene County, Tennessee, near the banks of the Nola Chucky River. My father moved in 1845 to the banks of the French Broad River, in Cocke County, Tennessee, shortly after I was born. I was the oldest of the six children, namely, myself, Alexander, Laura, Creed, Mary and James Ragan. My father was a county officer for years--in fact, until the late war. I grew up in the county, and attended muster.

In 1860 I was elected Lieutenant-Colonel of the Militia, and in the Fall of 1861 was in the employ of Frank Clark, who fattened hogs and every year drove them to South Carolina markets. At that time there were no railroads in East Tennessee leading to South Carolina. When we left East Tennessee there was no talk of war, but when we reached South Carolina, the people were excited and in a state of rebellion. Before reaching Spartanburg, Mr. Clark told me to be careful how I talked. He seemed to know the situation.

After we arrived at Spartanburg I was sick with jaundice for a few days, and confined to my bed. While in bed I could hear the rebels hallooing and riding through the streets, and the rattling of sabers.

In a few days I got out of my bed and went out into the streets. I was young, and hardly knew what it meant, for everything was calm when I left East Tennessee; but when I looked up and saw the rebel flag, I felt a thrill of patriotism run through my veins, and then began to realize the fact that it was not the flag I had been used to all my life. At that moment I was a Union boy, and felt that I was in the wrong latitude.

If I had uttered a word against the South at that time I would have been hung to the first limb. The Negroes were excited and scared nearly to death. Some one would set a house on fire and accuse a Negro of the crime, and arrest the first one he came across, taking him out and hanging him. I saw two hung in this manner.

The next morning I said quietly to Mr. Clark, "I believe I will go back to East Tennessee."

"All right," he said.

I had, I think, the best saddle horse in the State; he was a fox trotter, only three years old, and his gait was smooth and easy. I bid Mr. Clark good-day, and started on my journey.

The farther I got from Spartanburg, the better I felt. I believe I rode sixty-two miles from early in the morning until dark. It seemed to me that the horse was a Union animal, for he "pulled for the shore." I never put a spur or whip to his flesh. I was young, and will confess I was afraid the rebels were after me.

When I reached the top of the Blue Ridge, I looked back and it seemed to me that I could see the smoke of war. I then turned my face toward East Tennessee, and imagined I could see peace and harmony. I looked to my right and could see the Holston and Watauga Rivers running down through the valleys of East Tennessee, and the people going about their daily avocations; and next was the Nola Chucky, where I was born, with her beautiful bottom lands extending for miles. Next came the French Broad, on the banks of which I was raised. Next was the Big Pigeon, which was made from the little streams gushing from the Great Smoky Mountain and the North Carolina Mountains. I imagined I could see all these rivers making their way in peace to the Tennessee River, which emptied into the Ohio above its junction with the great Mississippi. I did not think at that time that there were preparations being made by the North and the South for the greatest war that was ever fought in the world.

After I had rested on the top of this mountain, I continued my journey down through a part of North Carolina to Paint Rock, and then into East Tennessee. When I arrived at Newport, Cocke County, I found the people making preparations to sow wheat. I remember on my way from South Carolina I came to a farm on the banks of the French Broad. The men were plowing, some with mules, some with horses and others with yokes of oxen, turning over the land. They knew me, and asked how I had come out with my hogs, and how the times were over in South Carolina.

I said, "H-- is to pay over there; they are fixing for war."

They asked me who they were going to fight.

"The Yankees," I said.

I told them that Fort Sumter had been fired upon. They asked me where Fort Sumter was. You see that the people in that locality had never heard of war, but in a short time they began talking about secession.

In February, 1861, the State of Tennessee voted against secession by the overwhelming majority of 68,000; but a military league, offensive and defensive, was entered into on the seventh day of May, 1861, between commissioners appointed by Governor Harris, on the part of the State of Tennessee, and commissioners appointed by the Confederate government, and ratified by the General Assembly of the State, whereby the State became a part of the Confederate States to all intents and purposes, although an act was passed on the 8th of June for the people to decide the question of separation and representation or no representation in the Confederate Congress.

In the meantime, troops had been organized and made preparations for war. The election was a farce, as the State had already been taken out of the Union and had formed an alliance with the other States of the Confederacy.

The leaders of the Union element, comprising the best talent of East Tennessee, had not been idle. The most prominent Union leaders at that time were Andrew Johnson, Thomas A. R. Nelson, W. B. Carter, C. F. Trigg, N. G. Taylor, Oliver P. Temple, R. R. Butler, William G. Brownlow, John Baxter and Andrew J. Fletcher. These men, with all their eloquence and ability, failed to accomplish the task of holding Tennessee in the Union.

The State commenced organizing troops, and as Lieutenant-Colonel of the Militia I was urged by the leading rebels of my county to make up a regiment for the rebel army. I refused to do so, and from that time on I was considered a Union man.

I was appointed by the School Board to teach school. When the Legislature met a law was passed exempting certain persons, such as school teachers, blacksmiths and millers from the Confederate service. Of course I came under the law and was exempt, and I wanted to keep out of the rebel army. I had just married and did not want to go North and leave my family until I was compelled to go. At that time very few men had left the State for the North.

In a short time the exemption law was repealed, and every man from eighteen to forty-five years of age had to join the rebel army or be conscripted. I was teaching school, but did not know of the repeal of the law; so in a day or two the rebel soldiers came to the school house and arrested me, and took me by way of my home, which was about two miles from the school house, in order that I might see my wife, as I requested.

When we reached my home my wife came to the door, and did not display any excitement. She was a brave Union woman, and knew that they had a hard customer, and that I would never fight for the Southern Confederacy. I wanted to have a private conversation with my wife, but they refused. I did not know when I would return, for they were killing men by hanging or shooting them every day, and taking others to Tuscaloosa. I just told my wife to go to her father and remain with him until I returned.

I will here relate a little incident that occurred while under arrest that evening, showing the way the rebels treated Union men. My brother-in-law was a rebel, but a nice man personally. He lived on a farm of about one hundred acres, adjoining the farm I lived on, and I can safely say that there was a cross-fence every two hundred yards through his farm, and no bars or gates to go through. I was on foot, and the rebel soldiers put me in front to lay down all these fences for them to pass through, and made me put them up afterward. Of course I obeyed orders, for every man was armed and wanted me to do something that they might have an excuse to shoot me.

When we passed out of the field into the woodland, we had to go through a deep hollow. When we reached the place, it was dark, although in the daytime. About the time we reached the middle of the hollow one of the soldiers, in a low voice, said to another, "Dave, this is a good place!" I listened, expecting to hear the command, "Halt!" but no reply was made to the remark. No one can imagine how I felt. I had just left my wife standing in the door of our little log cabin, watching the soldiers driving me through the field, taking down and putting up all the fences, as heretofore stated; I thought of my mother and my sisters, whom I should probably never see again. This was all in about a minute of time, but it was a terrible minute for me. However, the soldiers continued to drive me along until we came in the evening to the home of Henry Kilgore, the conscript officer, which was about two miles from our home. He took my name, and registered it on the conscript rolls. I was then considered a rebel soldier.

It was dark when we arrived at his house, and we had to remain until morning. There was a bed in the corner of the cabin, and I believe some beds on the second floor. The kitchen was about ten yards from the log cabin. They gave me my supper, but I had little appetite. I had known the conscript officer all my life, but he did not recognize me, and I will speak of him further on.

About eight o'clock I found they were going to have a "hoe-down" that night, and the men and women of the neighborhood were invited to come. They began to arrive about nine o'clock. I pretended to be sleepy, and an officer who was guarding me ordered me to get into the bed in the corner of the cabin. Of course I was under orders, and I crawled in--but no sleep for me.

They had a man with a violin, and commenced dancing, four at a time, face to face--a general hoe-down. They kept their drinks in the kitchen, which they visited often. They began to get tired and commenced singing

"I want some more of your weevilly wheat, I want some more of your barley."

They danced and enjoyed themselves by running around in the house after each other, and the women would jump on my bed and trample over me. I thought at times I would be trampled to death, but I was pretty hard to hurt at that time and I was mad to the core.

Next day the soldiers got together and detailed three men to take me to Knoxville, Tenn. When we arrived there, about two o'clock in the morning, they took me out--I cannot tell where--and put me in the stockade with about three hundred poor ragged men who had declared themselves for the Union. When I went in, they raised a howl,

"There is another Lincolnite!"

I never saw such a sight in all my life. These men were half naked and barefooted, and some without hats. They had lost their apparel in the woods, trying to make their escape. I do not think they had washed their faces or hands since being captured.

In the morning a wagon drove up to the stockade, on the outside, and the driver commenced throwing old, poor beef over the stockade on the ground. I shall never forget seeing one of the men pick up a piece of beef and throw it against the wall to see if it would stick, but it was too poor. I never expected to eat or bite of it, and I never did.

My father, who was a cousin of John H. Reagan, Postmaster General of the Southern Confederacy, was on hand at Knoxville about the time I arrived. He telegraphed to Richmond that his son was under arrest, that he had committed no crime, and that he was a school teacher. The Richmond authorities telegraphed back to Leadbeater, the commanding officer, directing him to release me. The next morning I passed out of the stockade and went back to my home, and commenced teaching school again.

In a few days word was sent to me that I was to be again arrested. I then disappeared, and for about eighteen months my whereabouts were only known by my family and the families of my wife, father, and an old uncle. All this time I was trying to get across to the Federal lines, but something happened to prevent my getting away. They were scouring the country for conscripts, and already had my name on the rolls, as I have heretofore stated.

Sometime about the first of 1862 I heard that a pilot was to be in Greene County, Tenn., to take Union men to the Federal lines. One Joseph Smith, who lived near my town, Parrottsville, went with me to Greene County, about twelve miles from our home, to the banks of the Nola Chucky River, and we remained there for a few days, lying in a straw stack and fed by an old Union lady, by the name of Minerva Hale.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet