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

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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.

News came that a "pilot" would be on hand about one mile from where we were. I do not know why, but something told me not to go. Joseph Smith left me, bidding me good-bye, and I never saw him again.

I started back home, twelve miles through the woods, and had to cross the Nola Chucky in the dark, and the rebels travelling all through the country, knowing that men were trying to cross to Kentucky. I reached home before daylight and let my wife know I had returned, then went out in the woods as usual and put up.

The next day news came to the neighborhood that the men Joseph Smith met were captured the night he left me, only three men making their escape--the pilot and two others. They saved themselves by jumping into Lick Creek, a small but deep stream, and sinking themselves in the water, only allowing their faces above the water enough to breathe.

The rest of the men were taken to Vicksburg and put in the rebel army. Joseph Smith was shot in the foot while at Vicksburg, and gangrene set in, causing his death. The other men were never subsequently heard of.

I never slept in a house but three or four times during the time I was scouting. I travelled between what is called Neddys Mountain and Newport, Tenn., which is about twelve miles. I never travelled in a road, and always in the night.

I had an old uncle who lived in Newport, between the French Broad River and the Pigeon River, which were about four miles apart. I wanted to see him, and started out one night. It was dark and raining, but I always felt safer the harder it rained and the darker the night. I came to the French Broad, a good sized river. Of course I knew that I could not cross at the ferry, for I had heard that it was guarded by rebel soldiers. I had been raised in that section from a boy and was familiar with the river and the surrounding country. About two hundred yards below the ferry I crossed the river, wading part of the way and swimming the balance, with my clothes in a bundle on my head.

When I got over I went in the bushes and dressed. I had to be very careful, for the town was full of rebel scouts, but no regular regiment was stationed there.

I went on the north side of the town, and down a little alley to the back of my uncle's house, and knocked at the kitchen door. Directly my cousin, Sarah Ragan, came to the door, and was dumbfounded to see me. She said, "Why, Cousin Bob, the town is full of rebel soldiers, and two are now in the parlor!"

She took me upstairs, and I remained there two days and nights. I could look out in the street and see the rebel soldiers going up and down. Of course they thought I was in the Northern Army, and nearly all the Union people thought the same.

I left the third night and went to my father's, on the main road leading from Newport to Greeneville, Tenn., about three miles from Newport. This was a dangerous place for me to stop, but I wanted to see my mother and sister, and I always found such places about as safe for me as any, as the rebels never thought of me or any other Union man being in such places.

I remained there for a few days. The second day, about two o'clock, word came that a regiment of rebel soldiers were crossing the French Broad at Newport, the place I had left a few nights before. I was at a loss to know what to do.

A rebel family lived just a few hundred yards away, on the main road, and there was not a tree or bush to hide me. I knew the soldiers would stop at the house and probably search the building for Union men. I had but a few minutes to decide.

My mother was on hand and always ready to offer suggestions in time of danger. She said, "Bob, put on Laura's dress and sun-bonnet, and cross the road."

My sister was well grown for her age, and in a few minutes I had the dress and bonnet on. The dress reached just below my knees, but I crossed the road and passed the barn into an old field about three hundred yards away. I fell into a washout, and stuck my head out and saw the rebel regiment pass. Some of them stopped at the house.

This was the first rebel regiment I had seen, and of course it was a sight to me, and I felt more anxious to get to the Federal army. This regiment of rebel soldiers was on its way to Johnson, Carter and Cocke Counties, to look out for Union men making their way to Kentucky or to the Federal army.

I went back to the house after dark, and left that night for Neddys Mountain, in the neighborhood of my home, and remained there some time, visiting my home at nights, but never sleeping in the house.

I will here relate a little incident that occurred while on a visit to my father's home, at the same place where I made my escape with the dress on. I was in the sitting room, talking to my mother, when some one knocked at the door, Of course we did not know who it was, so I got under an old-fashioned bed, with curtains to the floor. Our visitor was a lady who lived just below on the road, who was a strong rebel sympathizer, and had two brothers in the rebel army. She had come to spend the evening, and brought her knitting, as was the usual custom in that neighborhood. As she was busy talking to my mother, her ball of yarn rolled out of her lap and under the bed. As quick as lightning, mother ran and got the ball, by my kicking it back. In a few minutes she invited her visitor into another room.

At another time the same lady came while I was there, and she had a big bull dog with her. I heard that she was on the porch, and I went under the bed again. The dog came into the room and scented me. He stuck his head under the curtains, and I kicked him on the nose, and he went out yelping. The woman did not understand what it meant, but said nothing. I left that night, and never visited my father again during the war.

I remained around home and in the mountains, waiting for news to come for us to start for Kentucky. In a few tidings came that a "pilot" would start for the North about the first of May. Notice was given and preparations were made to meet on the north side of the Nola Chucky, in Greene Co., Tenn. I was to meet some men at a school house, about one mile from home. It was a dangerous time, as the rebels were scouting all over the country for Union men. That day, about three miles away, two Union men, Chris. Ottinger and John Eisenhour, were killed by the rebels.

On the 6th of May, 1863, I was at my father-in-law's house, preparing to meet the party at the school house heretofore mentioned. About sun-down, my father-in-law went to the door on the north side of the house and, turning around, said,

"The rebels are coming up the lane to the house!"

He went out toward the barn, calling the horses, trying to draw the attention of the rebels, and knowing that I would try to get away. I was barefooted, bareheaded, and without a coat. I ran out of the house on the south side, and kept the house between myself and the rebels. I jumped over a high fence and passed the loom house, then jumped another high fence and lit on a lime-stone rock, cutting the ball of my left foot to the bone, but did not know it until I ran up close to the barn and sat down in a briar thicket in a corner of the fence. I felt something sting, and putting my hand down, found the blood gushing from my foot. The reader can imagine how I felt. I was mad and ready to fight the entire Confederacy, but sat quietly, nursing my wrath and my wounded foot.

Outside it was very dark by this time. I crawled along on all fours to the "big house" door and went in. The rebels had stacked their arms in the sitting room, and all of their accoutrements were lying on the floor. As there was no light in this room, it was very dark. A stairway led from this room to the second floor, and I knocked lightly on the stair railing. My sister-in-law came in and was shocked to find me in the house. I told her I had ruined my foot on a rock, and that I would go round on the north side of the house to the kitchen door, and that she should tell my wife to come out, as I wanted to speak to her; but my sister-in-law could find no chance to do so, for the rebels were watching the family.

I stood at the door a minute, and tapped lightly, just so my wife would hear it, for I could see through the window that she was standing at the door. She opened it just a little, and I whispered to her and said I would go out into the garden and remain there until the rebels left.

While in the room I was tempted to take up their guns and go to the window and shoot three or four of them, but I knew if I did they would kill the family and burn the house.

I remained in the garden until they left, but suffered fearfully with my wounded foot. I knew I had to meet the men at the school house. After the rebels departed, I went in and cut off the top of my shoe and washed the blood from my foot and bound it up the best I could. The family filled my haversack with provisions and I started for the school house, where I met the boys and related my troubles to them.

Men from all parts were making their way to the place on the north side of the Nola Chucky, some seven miles from home. We had to cross a cedar bluff on the north side of the river, and the night was dark and the country very rough.

As a man by the name of Alfred Timons was crossing the road alone, making his way to the place, he was fired upon by the rebels and shot through the head, the ball coming out through his right eye. He fell to the ground, but regained his strength and made his escape to the river, which he crossed and came to the camp. The boys dressed his wound the best they could, and he went to Kentucky, but lost the sight of his eye.

I suffered all night with my foot, and could hardly put it to the ground. There were about one hundred and twenty men gathered there from all parts of the country, to go to Kentucky. We remained there that night and until about eight o'clock the next evening, when they started for that State.

I had to abandon the attempt to go this time, and was left alone on the bluff in a terrible condition--no one to help me back home, and if I should succeed in reaching home I could not stay in the house. I knew if I was captured I would be shot or hung to the first limb. The rebels had received word that we had crossed the river and were making our way to Kentucky.

I started for home that night, crossing the river in a canoe at the same place where I had crossed the night before. I travelled about three miles that night, and just before daylight I crawled into a barn, dug a hole in the hay, and remained there all day, suffering intensely with my foot. Some one came into the barn to feed the horses, but I knew who lived there, and did not dare to make my presence known. When the person came in the hay loft I was afraid whoever it was might stick the pitch fork in me. I could not tell whether it was a man or woman, for no word was spoken. I lay there all day, without anything to eat or drink, and suffering fearfully with my foot.

About eight o'clock that night I crawled out of the barn and started for home. I travelled about three miles, and before daylight I crawled into another barn. I had known the owner all my life. He was a German and a good Union man, but I could not let myself be known. No one came to the barn that morning, and I lay there all day. My foot had swollen so badly that my shoe had to be taken off, and I had to go barefooted.

The third night I crawled into the barn of Philip Easterly, who was my wife's uncle. I did not let myself be known, but lay there all day as usual, and at night crawled out, having one mile and a half to travel to reach home.

I can safely say that I had to hop on one foot most of the way. I had no crutches and nothing but a stick that I had cut with a knife. When I arrived at my home, about three o'clock in the morning, my folks were surprised to see me, for they thought I could never walk on my foot in the condition it was in. I had my foot dressed for the first time since I was hurt. The blood had caked on it, and it looked as if amputation might be necessary; but my wife came to me two or three times a day and dressed it. I stayed in the barn at nights, and in the woods in the daytime. I had to remain in this condition for about six weeks, until I got so that I could begin to walk.

In July, 1863, the news came that George Kirk would meet some men in Greene County to take them to Kentucky. I was determined to go, if I had to crawl part of the way. We met in Greene County, with about a hundred men. We crossed Walden Ridge and the Watauga, Cumberland, Holston and Powell's Rivers, encountering great hardships. Our provisions gave out, and the only way we could get anything to eat was to find a colored family. They were always loyal, and we could depend on them. They never would "give us away."

When we reached Camp Dick Robinson, Kentucky, we found a great many East Tennessee men who had made their way through the mountains. Some had organized into companies.

Col. Felix A. Reeve, who is now Assistant Solicitor of the Treasury Department, was organizing the Eighth Tennessee Regiment of Infantry. I reported to him that there were a great many Union men in North Carolina and Cocke County, Tenn., that wanted to come to the Union army, and if he would give me recruiting papers I would attempt to cross the Cumberland Mountain into East Tennessee, and make up a company and bring them back with me. He was very anxious for me to try it, but said it was a very dangerous undertaking, for the rebel soldiers were guarding every road and path that had been traveled by the Union men. I concluded, however, to make the venture.

With my brother Alexander Ragan, Iranious Isenhour, James Kinser and James Ward, I started for East Tennessee. We crossed Cumberland Mountain, and it commenced raining, and when in the night we came to Powell's River it was overflowing its banks. We had crossed at this place on our journey to Kentucky. The canoe was on the opposite side, and the night was so dark that we could not see across the stream. We knew that if we remained there until daylight we certainly would be captured and hung or shot. My brother and Eisenhour were good swimmers. They stripped off their clothes, and I never expected to see either of them again. I remember that my brother, while we were talking about who should swim over to get the canoe, said to me,

"I am not married, and if I get drowned it will not be so bad; if you were to get drowned, Emeline would be left alone."

I have since thought thousands of times how noble it was in him to have such fraternal feeling for myself and my wife under circumstances of so trying a nature.

They both plunged in at the same time. The timber was running and slashing the banks on the other side. I held my breath, waiting to hear the result. In a few minutes I heard my brother say, "Here it is, Iranius." So they brought the canoe over, and one by one we crossed to the other side. It was a frail little thing, and we thought every minute we would be drowned. We crawled up the steep bank to an old field, and as by this time it was daylight, we had to get into the woods and hide for the day. We had filled our haversacks with provisions when we left Camp Dick Robinson, but they were all wet and mixed up; yet we ate them all the same.

James Ward could not see a wink in the night. We did not know it until we had passed Cumberland Mountain. Of course we had to take care of him. He was like a moon-eyed horse; he was all right in the daytime, but we had to travel in the night, and we had to lead him half the time.

After a good many hardships, we reached Cocke County, Tenn. I do not think we met any one but an old man named Walker, whom I will mention later on. He gave us something to eat--in fact all he had, for the rebel soldiers had robbed him and left him destitute.

I went to my home in the night and made myself known, but did not sleep in the house.

While I was away, the rebels came to my father-in-law's house and took him out to an old blacksmith shop and told him if he did not give up his money they would hang him. He would not tell them where the money was, and they put the rope around his neck and threw it over the joist of the blacksmith shop, and pulled him up by the neck. His daughter came and agreed to tell them where the money was, and they let the old man down, but he was so near dead that he could not stand. They took the money, some gold and some silver, and passed on. My father-in-law was Benjamin F. Neass, an unconditional Union man. These things I relate to show how Union men and families were treated.

In the meantime I sent for my father at Newport, whom I had not seen for a year, and told the messenger not to let him know who wanted to see him, but to meet me in a piece of woodland in a certain place on my father-in-law's farm. The next night he came. I asked him to send word to North Carolina, and every place where he could find out that there were Union men who wanted to go to Kentucky, but not to let a man know who was the "pilot." He was Deputy Sheriff of the county, and was exempt from going into the rebel army at that time, but later on he had to leave the country.

In a few days word reached North Carolina and Greene and Cocke Counties, Tenn., that a "pilot" would be on hand at a place in the woods on my father-in-law's farm at a certain date. On the appointed day, one, two and three at a time, they made their appearance. I did not make myself known, but had a man ready to meet them and keep them quiet, for the rebels were all through the country. I knew if they captured me it would be certain death, for they killed every "pilot" they could lay their hands on.

The Union women had been notified when we were to meet, and they had made haversacks and filled them with provisions for their husbands. The mothers and sisters had done the same thing for their sons and brothers who were single.

When the time came at nine o'clock for us to start, I came out and made myself known. There were about a hundred men present, and I had been acquainted with nearly all of them. They were surprised and glad to see me, and I swore in all who wanted to enlist. It was a sad sight. The wives bid their husbands good-bye, net knowing whether they would ever see them again or not, and some of them never did; but they were loyal women and were ready at all times to sacrifice all for their country.

Women in North Carolina and some parts of East Tennessee suffered themselves to be whipped, and everything taken from them, and yet they would not tell where their husbands were. I have known them to cut up the last blanket in the house, to make clothes for their husbands, who were lying out, waiting for a chance to reach the Federal army. The night I left, my wife had cut up a blanket and made for me a shirt and a pair of drawers. All these things go to show what the Union men and women of East Tennessee did to help save this Government when it was in danger of destruction.

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