Great American Adventure Stories

by Tom McCarthy

  Great was the panic in Libby when the next morning’s roll revealed to the astounded Confederates that 109 of their captives were missing, and as the fireplace had been rebuilt by someone and the opening of the hole in the yard had been covered by the last man who went out, no human trace guided the keepers toward a solution of the mystery. The Richmond papers having announced the “miraculous” escape of 109 Yankee officers from Libby, curious crowds flocked thither for several days, until someone, happening to remove the plank in the yard, revealed the tunnel.

  Several circumstances at this time combined to make this escape peculiarly exasperating to the Confederates. In obedience to repeated appeals from the Richmond newspapers, iron bars had but recently been fixed in all the prison windows for better security, and the guard had been considerably reinforced. The columns of these same journals had just been aglow with accounts of the daring and successful escape of the Confederate general John Morgan and his companions from the Columbus (Ohio) jail. Morgan had arrived in Richmond on the 8th of January, exactly a month prior to the completion of the tunnel, and was still the lion of the Confederate capital.

  At daylight a plank was seen suspended on the outside of the east wall; this was fastened by a blanket rope to one of the window bars and was, of course, a trick to mislead the Confederates. General John H. Winder, then in charge of all the prisoners in the Confederacy, with his headquarters in Richmond, was furious when the news reached him. After a careful external examination of the building and a talk, not of the politest kind, with Major Turner, he reached the conclusion that such an escape had but one explanation—the guards had been bribed. Accordingly the sentinels on duty were marched off under arrest to Castle Thunder, where they were locked up and searched for “greenbacks.” The thousand and more prisoners still in Libby were compensated in a measure for their failure to escape by the panic they saw among the “Rebs.” Messengers and dispatches were soon flying in all directions, and all the horse, foot, and dragoons of Richmond were in pursuit of the fugitives before noon. Only one man of the whole escaping party was retaken inside of the city limits. Of the 109 who got out that night, 59 reached the Union lines, 48 were recaptured, and 2 were drowned.

  Colonel Streight and several other officers who had been chosen by the diggers of the tunnel to follow them out, in accordance with the agreement already referred to, lay concealed for a week in a vacant house, where they were fed by loyal friends, and escaped to the Federal lines when the first excitement had abated.

  After leaving Libby, Rose and Hamilton turned northward and cautiously walked on a few squares, when suddenly they encountered some Confederates who were guarding a military hospital. Hamilton retreated quickly and ran off to the east, but Rose, who was a little in advance, walked boldly by on the opposite walk and was not challenged, and thus the two friends separated.

  Hamilton, after several days of wandering and fearful exposure, came joyfully upon a Union picket squad, received the care he painfully needed, and was soon on his happy journey home.

  Rose passed out of the city of Richmond to the York River Railroad and followed its track to the Chickahominy Bridge. Finding this guarded, he turned to the right, and as the day was breaking, he came upon a camp of Confederate cavalry. His blue uniform made it exceedingly dangerous to travel in daylight in this region, and seeing a large sycamore log that was hollow, he crawled into it. The February air was keen and biting, but he kept his cramped position until late in the afternoon, and all day he could hear the loud talk in the camp and the neighing of the horses. Toward night he came cautiously forth, and finding the Chickahominy fordable within a few hundred yards, he succeeded in wading across. The uneven bed of the river, however, led him into several deep holes, and before he reached the shore, his scanty raiment was thoroughly soaked. He trudged on through the woods as fast as his stiffened limbs would bear him, borne up by the hope of early deliverance, and made a brave effort to shake off the horrible ague. He had not gone far, however, when he found himself again close to some Confederate cavalry and was compelled once more to seek a hiding place. The day seemed of interminable length, and he tried vainly in sleep to escape from hunger and cold. His teeth chattered in his head, and when he rose at dark to continue his journey, his tattered clothes were frozen stiff. In this plight he pushed on resolutely and was obliged to wade to his waist for hundreds of yards through one of those deep and treacherous morasses that proved such deadly fever pools for McClellan’s army in the campaign of 1862. Finally he reached the high ground, and as the severe exertion had set his blood again in motion and loosened his limbs, he was making better progress, when suddenly he found himself near a Confederate picket. This picket he easily avoided, and keeping well in the shadow of the forest and shunning the roads, he pressed forward with increasing hopes of success. He had secured a box of matches before leaving Libby, and as the cold night came on and he felt that he was really in danger of freezing to death, he penetrated into the center of the cedar grove and built a fire in a small and secluded hollow. He felt that this was hazardous, but the necessity was desperate, since with his stiffened limbs he could no longer move along fast enough to keep the warmth of life in his body. To add to his trouble, his foot, which had been broken in Tennessee previous to his capture, was now giving him great pain and threatened to cripple him wholly; indeed, it would stiffen and disable the best of limbs to compass the journey he had made in darkness over strange, uneven, and hard-frozen ground, and through rivers, creeks, and bogs, and this without food or warmth.

  The fire was so welcome that he slept soundly—so soundly that, waking in the early morning, he found his bootlegs and half his uniform burned up, the ice on the rest of it probably having prevented its total destruction.

  Resuming his journey much refreshed, he reached Crump’s Crossroads, where he successfully avoided another picket. He traveled all day, taking occasional short rests, and before dark had reached New Kent Courthouse. Here again he saw some pickets but by cautious flanking managed to pass them, but in crossing an open space a little farther on, he was seen by a cavalryman, who at once put spurs to his horse and rode up to Rose and, saluting him, inquired if he belonged to the New Kent Cavalry. Rose had on a gray cap and, seeing that he had a stupid sort of fellow to deal with, instantly answered, “Yes,” whereupon the trooper turned his horse and rode back. A very few moments were enough to show Rose that the cavalryman’s report had failed to satisfy his comrades, whom he could see making movements for his capture. He plunged through a laurel thicket and had no sooner emerged than he saw the Confederates deploying around it in confidence that their game was bagged. He dashed on as fast as his injured foot would let him and entered a tract of heavily timbered land that rose to the east of this thicket. At the border of the grove, he found another picket post and barely escaped the notice of several of the men. The only chance of escape lay through a wide, clear field before him, and even this was in full view from the grove that bordered it, and this he knew would soon swarm with his pursuers.

  Across the center of this open field, which was fully half a mile wide, a ditch ran, which, although but a shallow gully, afforded a partial concealment. Rose, who could now hear the voices of the Confederates nearer and nearer, dove into the ditch as the only chance and, dropping on his hands and knees, crept swiftly forward to the eastward. In this cramped position, his progress was extremely painful, and his hands were torn by the briers and stones, but forward he dashed, fully expecting a shower of bullets every minute. At last he reached the other end of the half-mile ditch, breathless and half-dead but without having once raised his head above the gully.

  Emerging from this field, he found himself in the Williamsburg Road, and bordering the opposite side was an extensive tract thickly covered with pines. As he crossed and entered this tract, he looked back and could see his enemies, whose movements showed that they were greatly puzzled and off the scent. When at a safe distance, he sought a hidi
ng place and took a needed rest of several hours.

  He then resumed his journey and followed the direction of the Williamsburg Road, which he found picketed at various points, so that it was necessary to avoid open spaces. Several times during the day, he saw squads of Confederate cavalry passing along the road so near that he could hear their talk. Near nightfall he reached Diasen Bridge, where he successfully passed another picket. He kept on until nearly midnight, when he lay down by a great tree and, cold as he was, slept soundly until daylight. He now made a careful reconnaissance and found near the road the ruins of an old building, which, he afterward learned, was called “Burnt Ordinary.”

  He now found himself almost unable to walk with his injured foot, but nerved by the yet bright hope of liberty, he once more went his weary way in the direction of Williamsburg. Finally he came to a place where there were some smoking fagots and a number of tracks, indicating it to have been a picket post of the previous night. He was now nearing Williamsburg, which, he was inclined to believe from such meager information as had reached Libby before his departure, was in possession of the Union forces. Still, he knew that this was territory that was frequently changing hands and was therefore likely to be under a close watch. From this on, he avoided the roads wholly and kept under cover as much as it was possible, and if compelled to cross an open field at all, he did so in a stooping position. He was now moving in a southeasterly direction, and coming again to the margin of a wide opening, he saw, to his unutterable joy, a body of Union troops advancing along the road toward him.

  Thoroughly worn out, Rose, believing that his deliverers were at hand, sat down to await their approach. His pleasant reverie was disturbed by a sound behind and near him, and turning quickly he was startled to see three soldiers in the road along which the troops first seen were advancing. The fact that these men had not been noticed before gave Rose some uneasiness for a moment, but as they wore blue uniforms and moreover seemed to take no note of the approaching Federal troops, all things seemed to indicate that they were simply an advanced detail of the same body. This seemed to be further confirmed by the fact that the trio were now moving down the road, apparently with the intent of joining the larger body, and as the ground to the east rose to a crest, both of the bodies were a minute later shut off from Rose’s view.

  In the full confidence that all was right, he rose to his feet and walked toward the crest to get a better view of everything and greet his comrades of the loyal blue. A walk of a hundred yards brought him again in sight of the three men, who now noticed and challenged him.

  In spite of appearances, a vague suspicion forced itself upon Rose, who, however, obeyed the summons and continued to approach the party, who now watched him with fixed attention. As he came closer to the group, the brave but unfortunate soldier saw that he was lost.

  For the first time, the three seemed to be made aware of the approach of the Federals and to show consequent alarm and haste. The unhappy Rose saw before the men spoke that their blue uniform was a disguise, and the discovery brought a savage expression to his lips. He hoped and tried to convince his captors that he was a Confederate but all in vain; they retained him as their prisoner and now told him that they were Confederates. Rose, in the first bitter moment of his misfortune, thought seriously of breaking away to his friends so temptingly near, but his poor broken foot and the slender chance of escaping three bullets at a few yards made this suicide, and he decided to wait for a better chance, and this came sooner than he expected.

  One of the men appeared to be an officer, who detailed one of his companions to conduct Rose to the rear in the direction of Richmond. The prisoner went quietly with his guard; the other two men tarried a little to watch the advancing Federals, and now Rose began to limp like a man who was unable to go farther. Presently the ridge shut them off from the view of the others. Rose, who had slyly been staggering closer and closer to the guard, suddenly sprang upon the man and, before he had time to wink, had twisted his gun from his grasp, discharged it into the air, flung it down, and ran off as fast as his poor foot would let him toward the east and so as to avoid the rest of the Confederates. The disarmed Confederate made no attempt at pursuit, nor indeed did the other two, who were now seen retreating at a run across the adjacent fields.

  Rose’s heart bounded with new hope, for he felt that he would be with his advancing comrades in a few minutes at most. All at once a squad of Confederates, hitherto unseen, rose up in his very path and beat him down with the butts of their muskets. All hands now rushed around and secured him, and one of the men called out excitedly, “Hurry up, boys; the Yankees are right here!” They rushed their prisoner into the wooded ravine, and here they were joined by the man whom Rose had just disarmed. He was in a savage mood and declared it to be his particular desire to fill Rose full of Confederate lead. The officer in charge rebuked the man, however, and compelled him to cool down, and he went along with an injured air that excited the merriment of his comrades.

  The party continued its retreat to Barhamsville, thence to the White House on the Pamunkey River, and finally to Richmond, where Rose was again restored to Libby and, like the writer, was confined for a number of days in a narrow and loathsome cell. On the 30th of April, his exchange was effected for a Confederate colonel, and on the 6th of July, 1864, he rejoined his regiment, in which he served with conspicuous gallantry to the close of the war.

  As already stated, Hamilton reached the Union lines safely after many vicissitudes and did brave service in the closing scenes of the rebellion. He is now a resident of Reedyville, Kentucky. Johnson, whose enforced confinement in Rat Hell gave him a unique fame in Libby, also made good his escape and now lives at North Pleasantville, Kentucky.

  Of the fifteen men who dug the successful tunnel, four are dead; viz., Fitzsimmons, Gallagher, Garbett, and McDonald. Captain W. S. B. Randall lives at Hillsboro, Highland County, Ohio; Colonel Terrance Clark at Paris, Edgar County, Illinois; Captain Eli Foster at Chicago; Colonel N. S. McKean at Collinsville, Madison County, Illinois; and Captain J. C. Fislar at Lewiston, I. T. The addresses of Captains Lucas, Simpson, and Mitchell are unknown at this writing.

  Colonel Rose has served faithfully almost since the end of the war with the 16th United States Infantry, in which he holds a captain’s commission. No one meeting him now would hear from his reticent lips or read in his placid face the thrilling story that links his name in so remarkable a manner with the history of the famous Bastille of the Confederacy.

  2

  The Last Pirate

  By Arthur Hunt Chute

  Mogul Mackenzie loved the frigid waters off the coast of Maine. There were plenty of wealthy and unsuspecting targets—coastal traders and clippers and whalers and packet ships—headed to Boston and beyond. For a pirate, it was easy pickings. Or so he thought.

  In the farther end of the Bay of Fundy, about a mile off from the Nova Scotian coast, is the Isle of Haut. It is a strange, rocky island that rises several hundred feet sheer out of the sea, without any bay or inlets. A landing can only be effected there in the calmest weather, and on account of the tremendous ebb of the Fundy tides, which rise and fall sixty feet every twelve hours, the venturesome explorer cannot long keep his boat moored against the precipitous cliffs.

  Because of this inaccessibility, little is known of the solitary island. Within its rampart walls of rock, they say there is a green valley, and in its center is a fathomless lake, where the Micmac Indians used to bury their dead, and hence its dread appellation of the “Island of the Dead.” Beyond these bare facts, nothing more is certain about the secret valley and the haunted lake. Many wild and fabulous descriptions are current, but they are merely the weavings of fancy.

  Sometimes on a stormy night, the unhappy navigators of the North Channel miss the coast lights in the fog, and out from the Isle of Haut a gentle undertow flirts with their bewildered craft. Then little by little, they are gathered into a mi
ghty current, against which all striving is in vain, and in the white foam among the iron cliffs, their ship is pounded into splinters. The quarry which she gathers in so softly at first and so fiercely at last, however, is soon snatched away from the siren shore. The ebb tide bears every sign of wreckage far out into the deeps of the Atlantic, and not a trace remains of the ill-starred vessel or her crew. But one of the boats in the fishing fleet never comes home, and from lonely huts on the coast, reproachful eyes are cast upon the “Island of the Dead.”

  On the long winter nights, when the “boys” gather about the fire in Old Steele’s General Stores at Hall’s Harbor, their hard, gray life becomes bright for a spell. When a keg of hard cider is flowing freely, the grim fishermen forget their taciturnity, the ice is melted from their speech, and the floodgates of their souls pour forth. But ever in the background of their talk, unforgotten, like a haunting shadow, is the “Island of the Dead.” Of their weirdest and most blood-curdling yarns, it is always the center, and when at last, with uncertain steps, they leave the empty keg and the dying fire to turn homeward through the drifting snow, fearful and furtive glances are cast to where the island looms up like a ghostly sentinel from the sea. Across its high promontory, the northern lights scintillate and blaze, and out of its moving brightness, the terrified fishermen behold the war canoes of dead Indians freighted with their redskin braves; the forms of cœur de bois and desperate Frenchmen swinging down the skyline in a ghastly snake dance; the shapes and spars of ships long since forgotten from the “Missing List”; and always, most dread-inspiring of them all, the distress signals from the sinking ship of Mogul Mackenzie and his pirate crew.