The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Adventures of Two Alabama Boys, by H. J. Crumpton and Washington Bryan Crumpton

Transcriber's note: This table of contents has been created and added by the transcriber for the reader's convenience. Inconsistencies have been preserved (example: Chapter I and Chapter Two).

[Dedication]
[Foreword.]
[Part One]
[Part Two]
[Chapter I]
[Chapter Two]
[Chapter Three]
[Chapter Four]
[Chapter Five]
[Chapter Six]
[Part Three]
[Introduction]
[Preface to Letters of the Second Trip]
[Chapter II]
[Chapter Three]

THE ADVENTURES OF
TWO ALABAMA BOYS

W. B. CRUMPTON H. J. CRUMPTON

"The Boys" as they looked then

The Adventures of Two
Alabama Boys

In Three Sections

By H. J. and W. B. Crumpton

Part One
The Adventures of Dr. H. J. Crumpton, of
Piedmont, California, in his efforts to reach
the Gold Fields in 1849
Part Two
The Adventures of Rev. W. B. Crumpton, going
to and returning from California, including his
Lecture, "The Original Tramp, or How a Boy
Got through the Lines to the Confederacy"
Part Three
To California and Back after a Lapse of
Forty Years

Montgomery, Ala.
The Paragon Press
1912

Copyright 1912 by W. B. Crumpton
Printed at the Paragon Press

[Dedication]

We dedicate the little booklet to our children. Maybe others will be interested also. We are certain there are important lessons here for young people, who are in earnest. For the frivolous and thoughtless there is nothing.

"The Boys."

[Foreword.]

THE ADVENTURES OF TWO ALABAMA BOYS was prepared some years ago with the view of putting it in book form; but "The Boys" have been so very busy the publication has been delayed.

SECTION ONE contains the adventures of Dr. H. J. Crumpton, a native of Wilcox county, but since '49 a citizen of California, now residing on a beautiful spot in Piedmont, a suburb of the city of Oakland.

These incidents which he relates, his baby brother, the writer of these lines, heard when he was a scrap of a boy. They made a profound impression on his youthful mind, and he has ever cherished the hope that some day he might see them in print. They were prepared at my earnest solicitation. I feel sure it was no easy task to dig up from memory almost forgotten incidents and put them in shape for the reader. At this writing, though he is advanced in years, past eighty-four, the good wife writes: "He is smart and active as ever—walks fifteen miles and it doesn't feaze him."

One of the most noted buildings in San Francisco is that of the Society of California Pioneers, of which Society he is an honored member and a Vice-President. His opinion of politics one can discover by a letter to the writer. He says: "I am forced to the conclusion, after serving in the Legislature of my adopted State several terms and in a local municipality, that politics is a filthy pool." An opinion shared by a good many others. Some are said to be born politicians; but I am sure none were born in the Crumpton family. Every one of the name I have ever known, felt great interest in all public questions and had opinions about them, but office seeking has not been to their liking.

A family trait is, an undying love for the old haunts. This caused the old Forty Niner, when he possessed the means to do so, to purchase the old farm of his father, fulfilling in part, no doubt, a dream of his youthful days.

Though in the land of the enemy he was loyal to the South during the war between the States, proving his faith by his works when he invested much of his means in Confederate Bonds. The Confederacy failing, of course this was a clear loss to him. Just at the breaking out of the Civil War, he returned to California to look after his interests there and to see what had become of me. If the reader will turn to my letters which follow, he will get the connection.

He failed to tell a most interesting event in his history: When a miner, he often took on his knee a wee-bit of a girl, Mattie by name, the daughter of William Jack, a sturdy old Scotch-Irishman, from Beloit, Wis. She called him "sweetheart," and he often took her pledge to be his wife some day. Sure enough, the old bachelor waited, and little Mattie has been for many years the mistress of his home. In one of the most cozy cottages of Sausalito, nestling against the mountain, with the Bay and the City of San Francisco at its front, it was my pleasure to visit the little family some years ago. It had been forty years since I had seen my brother. In her father's home in 1862, near Beloit, I had spent two months delightfully, while stealthily preparing to make my way through the lines to the Confederacy. I know it was in his heart to tell of his wife and his charming daughter, Clara, the light and joy of the home; but the burden of writing was too much, and abruptly he gave up the job.

I am glad indeed the Adventures begin with something of the family history. He is the only member of the family remaining who knows anything about it (there are only two of us now). I am mortified that I failed to find out some of the facts from my father, who was so long with me in his old age.

My brother, after his adventurous life in the mines, served his adopted State in the Legislature and later settled down, after graduation, to the practice of medicine, a profession he seemed to have a liking for from his boyhood. At this writing he is a citizen of Piedmont, California. He is hale and hearty and says that in 1915, when the Panama Canal is opened, he is going to visit the States again and bring his wife. Every foot of the route across the Isthmus will be familiar, as he crossed it several times, one time partly on foot, before the railroad was completed.

W. B. CRUMPTON.

Montgomery, Ala.

[Part One]

By H. J. Crumpton

The Adventures of Dr. H. J. Crumpton of Piedmont, California, in his efforts to reach the Gold Fields in 1849

Recollections of the family life; Arrival in Alabama; Moves to town; Changes vocation; Becomes a printer; The Mexican War; Starts on his wanderings; The gold excitement; Starts for the Far West; New acquaintances; Another start West; Strikes out all alone; A plunge in the overflow; Falls in with the military; Strikes hands with old friends; Food scarce; Confronted by Indians; Alone again; Reaches California; Loses his oxen; In God's country at last; Gets a job; Takes sail; Hears sad tidings; No pay for services; At Oro City; In the mines; At rough-and-ready; Starts back home; In a wreck; On the Panama; In New Orleans; Finds his brother; Detained in Mobile; Business complications; Back to the mines; Returns to Alabama; Opinion about slavery.

Part One

MY DEAR Brother Wash:

You asked me to prepare some notes on the wanderings of an Alabama Boy. To do this from memory after such a lapse of time will be somewhat inaccurate and prosy, I fear.

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE FAMILY LIFE.

Our parents were married about 1816. Mother was Miss Matilda Smith Bryan and father Henry T. Crumpton. Both sprang from honorable, well-to-do people from revolutionary sires, who were soldiers of distinction under General Francis Marion. Our maternal grandfather was Rev. Richard Bryan, a Methodist preacher. Our parents started married life in Walterboro, Colleton District, S. C., where were born to them Mary, Richard Alexander, Maranda Ann, Henry Thomas, Hezekiah John, (myself, born Sept. 18, 1828), and William Zachariah; the balance of the ten children, afterwards born in Alabama were James Henderson, Martha Matilda, Jane Eliza, and Washington Bryan, yourself, the baby. All have now passed into the life beyond except you and me.

In Walterboro our father developed into something of a plunger in the financial world; made several successful deals, later formed a partnership—the other fellow furnishing experience, our progenitor the "dough." They invested in the purchase and driving of cattle to supply the Charleston beef market. They succeeded well, always re-investing original capital and profit in another and bigger lot, finally meeting a calamity by the drowning of the whole herd in attempting to cross a swollen stream, Broad River, perhaps at its mouth and perhaps from not knowing of the ebb and flow of the tide, though living within forty miles of the coast. With a feeling of disgust, following this financial collapse, our father sought new environment, and by the aid of kins folk loaded up family and household belongings in 1832 and struck out through the wilderness for Alabama, across Georgia through the Chickasaw and Choctaw nations, before the removal of those and other friendly tribes was completed to the territory now forming part of the State of Oklahoma.

ARRIVAL IN ALABAMA.

After a dreary trip, we safely landed at the delightful home of grandmother Bryan near "Fort Rascal," now Pleasant Hill, Dallas Co. We afterwards moved to old Cahaba, where our father succeeded well in business. The arrival of a steamboat was quite an event, occurring maybe once a month; everybody turned out. They had a crude way of loading cotton. A bale was carelessly turned loose and rolled over our brother Henry, who sustained injuries from which he died. This was such a shock for poor mother, it was determined best to have a change of scenes. Our family removed from old Cahaba to Farmersville, a little hamlet in Lowndes county. One thing about our stay there is vividly remembered. A dear, good old soul, named Ingram, was my school teacher in the log-cabin school house. He didn't know much and didn't try to fool anybody; but he was a great stickler for what he called "etiket"—was bent on teaching his children good manners. Just about all of Friday was devoted to this stunt. It was quite a relief, after we got rid of our bashfulness. The previous four days, twelve hours each, with our prosy studies, put us in good shape for a change on Friday. The dear old fellow managed to work in more or less change of program from time to time; but one inflexible feature was to send one of the girls out of one of the side doors, then detail some boy to go out the other, to escort her back and introduce her to each one of the whole school, an ordeal to which every boy and girl had to be subjected. Some regarded this as a hardship, but to this degenerate son of Adam 'twas always a roaring farce and as good as a circus!

Our family about this time came into possession of quite an inheritance, which was added to the proceeds from sale of the effects at Cahaba, and invested in a fine body of land, about the junction of Grindstone and Bear Creeks, in Wilcox county. Our charming new home was built on high ground on Dogwood Level, a little way from the farm, where we had a spring of fine water and plenty of good air. By this time three of us boys were big enough to work and strong, willing workers we were. With no experience and not always guided in our farming, we got along better than neighbors to the manner born, and were learning and doing fairly well. It was perhaps the mistake of a lifetime to accept an offer to sell the whole outfit, at figures far in advance of cost or apparent present value, to people who knew a good thing when they saw it—the Maxwells—a noble acquisition to that then border settlement.

MOVED TO TOWN.

We moved to the county seat, Barbersville, now Camden, and went into the hotel business. We furnished a good table, clean house, clean beds, was popular and crowded from the start—lots of old family friends from far and near, called for entertaining whom it would have been an outrage on Southern hospitality to tender, or accept compensation. In this way all profits were "chawed up"—a mighty poor way to run a hotel. But we older boys were pretty good hustlers, earned enough to help along, tiding over and in the education of the younger children.

My first stunt in that direction was starting an express and stage line. Carried passengers and freight between our town and Bridgeport, nearest landing on the Alabama River. My outfit was a one-horse affair with a highly prized annex—an undersized black cur, "Beaver,"—worthless in the estimation of everyone, other than his affectionate owner.

About this time, two enterprising young men from New England started a general store at the landing. On a return trip from the East to buy goods, one of them brought with him a large Newfoundland dog—the first one in those parts, which he "sicked" onto Beaver. Owing to the difference in size, results were quick and one-sided. Seeing me crying in affectionate, helpless distress, the fellow had the heartless bad taste to exultingly ask: "What do you think of that, young man?" My response between sobs was: "You, a big man, made a big dog lick a little boy's little dog. By and by, I will be as big as you and will then do to you what has been done today to my Beaver." Years afterwards, when, perhaps, as the first successful Californian to return, the people of dear old Camden tendered me quite an ovation, he of the dog fight, among them, was loud in expressing welcome and personal admiration, which made it deucedly bad taste in me to allude to the old thing, by saying: "If now the attempt was made to execute the promised retaliation, it would show a malicious, revengeful spirit, without in any way changing what occurred in the long ago, so please consider the incident closed," and so it was with a snap.

CHANGE OF VOCATION.

Maybe the dog fight prompted a change of vocation to that of mail carrier, on horse back or mule back, the route extending from Cahaba down the river by Cambridge[A] to Prairie Bluff, across the river and up by old Canton, to Camden, Bells Landing, Claiborne, thence to Stockton, in Baldwin county, and serving intervening post offices. It required six days to make a round trip with the seventh day off, Thursday, either at Stockton or the other end. At Stockton, as a government attaché one had the privilege to go on the mail boat to Mobile and return after a stay of five hours—quite a treat for a country boy. Whereas, a day off at the other end involved an extra ride of ten miles to Selma and return, because the contractor lived there, and thus saved the keep of boy and horse in Cahaba.

[A] The post office at Cambridge was in the home of a planter, C. M. Cochran, H. J. C. carried the mail into that home many a time, about the time the other Alabama boy was born. Into that home the latter entered in 1870 and took the baby daughter of the old post master to be his wife. The post office has been long known as Crumptonia.—W. B. C.

With an ambition to do faithful and efficient service, reckless risks were some times taken. I once got into Flat Creek, when the old worn-out mule was unable to stem the stiff current. We were carried down stream toward the river not far away. A friendly overhanging grape-vine gave me a stopping place and not far below the mule lodged in a submerged tree-top. My lusty yells brought the good Samaritan. When about to swim out to rescue me, he was disgusted when told to first save the mule and mail. This he did in good shape; meantime, I did my own swimming. The water was emptied out of the mail bag, the bag thrown across the saddle, the mule mounted, and away we went for a bridge several miles up the stream. Maybe it was not the same old mule which about a year afterwards laid down and died suddenly, some eight miles from our terminal point, Cahaba. Slinging saddle, bridle, and mail bag over my shoulder, the balance of the trip was made on foot and the mail delivered on time. When next pay day came around, the old contractor placed his own value on the mule and took same out of my wages. My job was thrown up immediately and suit commenced for the amount due, but tiring of the law's delay, the case was allowed to lapse, and the wretch allowed the comfort of having beaten a boy out of hard earned wages. Doubtless he has long since passed to the beyond. He was outwardly a devout and sanctimonious man; if one were sure he is now enjoying a state of heavenly bliss, it would more than justify a belief in universal salvation.

BECOMES A PRINTER.

My next work was an apprentice in a printing office—a fine school for a boy with an ambition to learn. Those capable of judging soon began to credit me with quick, accurate work. 'Twas a misfortune perhaps, and entailed following hardships to have an early ambition for something beyond—commenced "reading medicine"—generally in hours stolen from sleep or out-door exercise and sunshine.

MEXICAN WAR.

When the war with Mexico commenced, brothers William and Richard went as volunteers, the latter on a very short enlistment, and afterwards wrote he had declined further service in the ranks, having secured employment more lucrative in the quartermaster's employment. Although not exactly fair thus to leave the old folks alone with a number of younger children, I left for Memphis, Tenn., soon after the other boys went to Mexico and matriculated as a student in a medical college.

I paid my way by working between times in a printing office. There I remained for two years and made fine progress. I was still under age, and on some account I concluded there would be but little honor in attaining a degree from that school, so I determined for a time to suspend further efforts in that direction. I was growing up thin and cadaverous looking, longing for out-door life, so I left Memphis with a view of joining brother Richard on the Rio Grande frontier. Upon my arrival at New Orleans, May 1848, peace was declared with Mexico. Concluding that our brothers and all other American troops would come home soon, I returned to our home in Camden. William came before a great while, but Richard wrote he had joined a Major Graham's party soon to leave the Rio Grande frontier to take possession of this recently acquired territory, California, as a part of the rich spoils of war. Upon learning this, my purpose was at once declared to join him as soon as possible, though having next to nothing financially to go on. This was before the finding of gold there had been announced to us. A man, Kilpatrick by name, from Clark county, had been quite sick in Camden, under treatment of Dr. Bryant. More as a nurse than a half-baked doctor, he had been cared for by me also, for which there was quite a sum due. Announcing to him my purpose, and asking payment for amount due, he, like others, was shocked at so desperate an undertaking, but said my claim would be paid as soon as he could obtain money from home. This emergency was soon bridged over by his giving me a check on his folks for the amount.

STARTS ON HIS WANDERINGS.

So I packed my belongings into a pair of old saddle-bags, which was sent down the river to Mobile. I collected every cent due me in Camden and struck out across country for Kilpatrick's home in Clark county on foot. In those days it was rare to see a decent appearing white chap thus traveling. White folks looked askance and suspicious, and the darkies wondered. It was a comfort to hear a darky say to her companions: "Yander boy haint no po' white trash." She didn't know how scantily filled was my purse.

The Kilpatricks treated me like a prince, paid me liberally for services to afflicted relative, urged me to stay with them longer, and bade me Godspeed in my desperate undertaking. Resuming my tramp, it was not far to the Tombigbee, where a steamboat picked me up and in due time landed me in Mobile, where my first care was to hunt up my old saddle-bags. I forgot to pay the consignee, who perhaps thought me a rich planter's son, whose cotton crop he hoped to handle later on.

THE GOLD EXCITEMENT.

By this time the great gold discoveries were known the world over. At New Orleans I saw a circular sent out from Fort Smith, Ark., "Ho, for California Gold Mines!" It went on to say that an expedition was fitting out at that point, soon to start overland. After some mistakes enroute, I reached Ft. Smith, perhaps in Oct. 1848, to be informed that the expedition was only in its incipiency, not to leave there until the following spring, which was just as well for me, as most of my scanty funds had been used up. I was fortunate indeed in finding work. I was never idle a day, so that within six months, I accumulated quite a little sum. I suppose I had the appearance of being an undersized country boy; but everybody soon saw a quick willingness to do diligently any task given me. 'Twas soon my good fortune to fall in with John F. Wheeler, an old Georgian, who had married a Cherokee—an intelligent, educated woman. They had a number of children, mostly girls, all well behaved. He owned the Fort Smith Herald, put me to work, took me into his family, a delightful, cheerful home. When spring opened, mostly through him, terms were made for my transportation with dear old Charley Hudspeth, who showed the affection of a father for his son.

STARTS FOR THE FAR WEST.

We left Fort Smith April 12th, 1849, traveled westerly up the Canadian river through the territory of the Choctaws and other of those friendly tribes, who had been moved from Georgia, Alabama and other Southern States. Thence our route of travel was westerly up that river through the present territory of Oklahoma, up onto broad open plains to Sante Fe, Albuquerque, thence down the Rio Grande to near El Paso, thence to Tucson, to the Pimo villages, down the Gila to the Colorado, where Fort Yuma now is, thence across the Great American Desert, and so through arable California to Los Angeles, to San Pedro, thence by Barque Hector, by sea, to San Francisco.

Some little distance from Ft. Smith, our route of travel was mostly through low valley lands with a number of rather large streams, with considerable rain, hence our progress was rather slow. After going about 150 miles, my leg became seriously injured from a horse floundering in the mud. This injury in such surroundings grew rapidly more serious. Two reputable medical men in the train gave me kind treatment and rather gloomy prognostications, hinting at the possibilities of amputation. Though they knew no more than this half-baked doctor, everything tended to make me despondent.

Just then a young man, whose wealthy father lived in Ft. Smith, and who knew of the friendship of old John Wheeler and family for me, said: "Young fellow, you are in a bad fix. You had better return and let those Wheeler girls and their mother take care of you and you'll soon be as good as new—don't say you can't stand the trip—you can ride horse-back. There is one of my best horses, saddle, bridle and lariat; take them and deliver them to my father at Ft. Smith." Others thought well of this scheme, which rekindled a tender feeling for one of the half-breed Cherokee girls and made me feel homesick. So it did not take much persuasion to start me on the back out trip, dear old Charlie Hudspeth having refunded all I had paid him.

Soon afterwards I was taken in for the night by a Choctaw family. Though full blooded Indians, they were intelligent, well-to-do people, who treated me with royal hospitality. I made myself solid with them by saying my people knew their's well and were always on friendly terms with them before removal from Southern States. When they were told of my having lived with the Wheeler family, though the latter were Cherokees, they made me feel very much at home. There was a continuous rain and they prevailed on me to remain until its subsidence—which was not for several days—and had the effect to overflow a large stream nearby. Remembering some of my bad luck in high water when a mail carrier, I determined not to take any chances now—happy indeed in having so good a stopping place. Cleanliness and rest worked wonders in my injured leg within the few days thus waterbound.

NEW ACQUAINTANCES.

There came along a pack train bound for California and camped on the opposite side of the stream. Tired waiting the subsidence of the flood they hired the Indians to help them across. The Indians constructed a rude raft, on which the trappings and cargoes of the mules and their owners were placed and drawn with ropes across. The Indians, almost naked, were in the water steering the mules across—doing the job in splendid way.

This pack train turned out to be a part of a large wagon train, several days in advance of them, whom, from the description, I knew were traveling near my old party. When it came to paying the Indians for their arduous ferry job, the packers did not have ready money enough and, like so many others when dealing with Indians, did not know the importance of being civil. The Indians were very indignant and did not believe that they were short of the ready. Things began to look serious.

ANOTHER START WEST.

My own physical condition was changing so rapidly for the better, my old enthusiasm for the westward trip only required a little to change my course in that direction; so, to relieve these fellows of their dilemma, I offered to advance the balance due the Indians and go along with them until we overtook their wagon train, when the amount due me should be refunded. This was readily agreed to and the Indians' claim amicably adjusted. The family with whom I had been stopping would accept no compensation for their kindness to me, so I bade them an affectionate adieu and departed.

In due time, traveling with the packers, we overtook their wagon train; the amount due me was promptly repaid. My own old party was reported several days ahead. We were then beyond low, swampy land, onto broad, open plains on the border of the Kiowas, Comanches, and other warlike tribes of Indians. We were at a point where most of the teams had crossed from the South to the North side of the Canadian river.

STRIKES OUT ALL ALONE.

I chose to follow the track of the lesser number, who continued up on the southerly side of that great stream. I passed a number of detached small parties, but soon found myself beyond all in sight, and alone on broad, treeless plains, with now and then a clump of willows or a lone cotton tree, showing where the river was. Thus passed two anxious days. During the afternoon of the third day, several shallow ponds of water were crossed, some a quarter of a mile in extent, but only a few inches deep.

A little after dark, I found quite a beaten track, showing a large number of wagons had recently passed; felt somewhat relieved, hoping soon to fall in with some one.

A PLUNGE IN THE OVERFLOW.

Perhaps about nine o'clock, I came to a body of water, which I mistook for another shallow pond, such as had been previously encountered, but in a little time I was in swimming water, in a strong, rapid current. The horse, as badly panic stricken as the rider, could not, or would not swim and was soon rolling down the current like a barrel. For some time I could not detach my feet from the little yankee stirrups. When released, I swam until able to stand a moment with head above water.

The horse was out in the current and neighed pitifully for help. Swimming out to him and catching the bridle, we successfully landed on the same side we started in. Although it was a cool evening, instead of having my only coat on, it hung carelessly on the horn of the saddle, and my Alabama saddle bags and a pair of blankets were thrown loosely across the saddle with some provisions. All these floated down the river. With the lariat, which had fortunately been saved, the horse was picketed on the leeside of a bunch of willows. Covered with the wet saddle blanket, he fared fairly well in the luxuriant grass. To save myself from freezing, I cut with my big jack-knife a lot of willow twigs, and piled them in a heap. Wiggling myself into the center of this, I found a perfect shield from the raw wind and never had a more comfortable, sound sleep all night.

I was disgusted with myself in the morning to discover this was the crossing place of the Canadian river of the emigrants who had been traveling up the North side and that when striking their road the night before, 'twas my fate to take the wrong end and was on the back track to Fort Smith, when entering the river.

FELL IN WITH THE MILITARY.

I resumed a westerly course next morning. After traveling all day, badly scared by plenty of signs of hostile Indians, was overjoyed to see friendly camp-fires ahead, which proved to be a military escort which accompanied us to Santa Fe. They treated me hospitably, after hearing my tale of woe. Up to the time I got into the river, although I had some provisions, I had no relish for them, owing, I suppose, to my fear of Indians, and the uncertainty about the route of travel. I was well prepared now to fill up with the ample lay-out presented by my military entertainers. The incident was mentioned in their report to the Government of Captain Mercey's Santa Fe expedition from Fort Smith Spring of 1849.

STRIKES HANDS WITH OLD FRIENDS.

I rejoined my old party the next afternoon; was received with surprise and great enthusiasm. The horse and outfit was returned to his owner and dear old Charlie Hudspeth treated me as a returned lost son, sound and well every way, and fully reinstated me as one of the party. I was a general chore boy, looking up camping sites, starting fires, procuring wood and water, driving team, or looking out for stock; most of the time traveled on foot. While a mail carrier, I had learned to ride and stay on most any kind of a "critter." So while enroute, I rode everything placed in my charge, steer, cow, mule or bronco, thus I had many a lift when tired of tramping.

We passed through safely the many warlike tribes before reaching New Mexico. By the time we reached Santa Fe, we realized it would take a much longer time to make the trip clear across than at first anticipated and that provisions would be short.

FOOD SCARCE.

We were disappointed, too, in not being able to replenish by purchase from the Mexicans—only in stinted quantities. We were disappointed also in seeing but few buffaloes, from which source we had expected to get all the additional meat we might require. At that time there were still millions roaming the plains. Their habit was to start from Canada at the approach of winter, feeding Southward, wintering in Northern Texas, Mexico and Indian Territory, starting Northward, as spring approached, back to their Northern feeding grounds.

In traveling down the Great Rio Grande Valley, a very rich country from Albuquerque to near El Paso, we were some times able to buy beans. Further on we found an abundance of muskeet—a wild locust which bore a sort of bean, fine food for man or beast. But we had to live on restricted rations for a long time. It was an unwritten law that women and children should eat all they wanted. Being a stunted, undersized boy, just taking on new growth, consequently requiring more than a fully developed man, it was a particular hardship not to be let in as a juvenile with the women. All of us soured. We grew crabbed and cross, forgetting what the Good Book says: "A soft answer turneth away wrath." There were bickerings and quarrels and bloodshed.

Presuming on our escape from Indian depredations, we began to grow careless. After leaving the Rio Grande Valley, we camped one night without water,—disappointed in not reaching the Rio Mimbles. Next morning we started early without breakfast. Nearly every one on horse-back shoved out ahead. Soon there was a line of timber in sight, where we felt sure there was water. Having a small band of cattle under my charge, one of them was mounted, and the band crowded ahead. In a little while I was some distance ahead of the train of wagons when, as if springing out of the ground, three Apache Indians, splendidly mounted, confronted me.

ALONE CONFRONTED BY INDIANS.

My feelings might have found utterance as follows: "Well, boy, there is one chance in a thousand for you to get out of this alive—that one chance consists in concealing from them that you are scared nearly to death." Having picked up considerable Spanish during the short contact with the Mexicans, which the border tribes all speak fluently, they were invited to go into camp with me, that we had some nice presents for them, naming such things as were thought most acceptable to them. In the meantime I had dismounted from my steed and advanced to the one supposed to be the leader and offered to shake hands with him. After a little conversation with his fellows, he seized my hand, not so as to give me pain, but with a grip it would have been useless to pull away from had he willed it otherwise. Being right over me on his horse, he looked at me so piercingly that the effect was transmitted to the region of the stomach, where there was a death-like chilliness. My weight being less, perhaps, than 100 pounds, my uppermost thought was, how easy for him to lift me across his saddle and, with his comrades, fly away to the mountains and have a war dance while burning me at the stake. All this while he was telling how good he thought me.

To my surprise the invitation was accepted, and we took up the line of march for camp, one of the yellow devils in the rear and one on each side of the little band of cattle and the badly scared boy who kept jabbering away, afraid to stop lest his knees would give way. They acted on my suggestion to go out and get some horses and mules and bring them in, as we wanted some and would give good prices.

ALONE AGAIN.

Being left alone by them, I was glad to pile down on the side of the road and wait for the wagon train and go to camp with them. No matter what their original purpose, these Indians never returned to our camp. Another and bigger band had just returned into the same mountain and doubtless were joined by my entertainers with a drove of stock stolen from the Mexicans; but a band of our troops followed and recovered the stock after a sharp fight. These border tribes had for all time gone on such forays according to their own sweet will and got away with the spoils before the poor Mexicans got ready to hit back. Through our late acquisition of territory, these Mexicans received protection from our troops. This the Indians resented, regarding the border settlements as their special preserves, the engagement referred to being the commencement of an interminable war. Our party escaped without trouble, but those behind us and poor Mexicans by the score were destroyed before the almost annihilation of all these border tribes.

REACHES CALIFORNIA.

After considerable privation, we finally reached California by crossing the Colorado river, where Fort Yuma now is, into the Great American Desert, where we found things more tolerable than anticipated. A large area of the so-called desert is far below the sea-level and there had been a vast inflow of fresh water the past season from the great Colorado river. A rank growth of green grass and other vegetation awaited our coming and deep pools furnished an abundance of pure, cool water. We at last reached settlements where we could replenish our stores and where there was plenty of game.

LOST HIS OXEN.

Soon after reaching the first settlement, a loose yoke of oxen was lost through my carelessness and I stopped behind to hunt them. I found them after looking thirty-six hours, just at dark the second night, and started with them, on foot, to overtake my party. I had nothing to eat during the time, traveled all night, and next morning at eight o'clock met two of my comrades starting back to hunt me. They had killed a fine, fat deer, and had a four quart bucket full of stewed venison with dumplings made of unbolted flour, a repast fit to set before a king. That layout was set before me and the void from a forty-eight hours' fast was soon filled. The boys stared at the almost empty pail, being told 'twas the first eaten since we parted two days before.

IN GOD'S COUNTRY AT LAST.

One was justified in feeling, under the circumstances, that at last he had found "God's Country."

We now leisurely moved along and reached Los Angeles in due time, where our party broke up. Some sold off their stock; others drove on, or packed through to the southern gold fields; others took shipping for San Francisco. Having nothing to go farther on, it was necessary for me to find work. My employer was old Abel Stearnes, an old settler, a Scotchman, who had married into a noble Castilian family. He was well-to-do, a merchant. When asked what I could do, I replied: "O, anything." "Which means you are trained to nothing!" was his reply. I said: "Not exactly, I am a doctor." With a grunt he mumbled out "You are a h—— of a looking doctor!"

GOT A JOB.

Agreeing with him on that proposition, I replied: "Well, I don't expect to doctor you, but surely you can use me some way to your benefit and to mine." After thus tantalizing me and taking my measure, he called a peon, whom I found to be an easy boss, and I was placed beside himself digging and shoveling, took his gait, which was much more easy than the Southern darkey. Later on the old man came out and said: "Come in now, we are going to have dinner." This first invitation for a square meal within six months was embarrassing. In my thread-bare, unkempt condition, I felt myself unfit to dine with an elegant family. The old Don took in the situation and walked away, to reappear after perhaps an hour, renewing his invitation, as I supposed, to dine with the servants; but there was a retinue of them to wait on me, no one else at the table. 'Twas a magnificent spread, fit to set before royalty. Knowing very little about liquor of any sort, I did not understand the Don, when he said in setting a well-filled decanter before me: "Here is some fine old dry Sherry; help yourself, it won't hurt you." To verify his last assertion, he poured out a goblet full and tossed it down, smacked his lips, then poured out another for me, which was disposed of as per his request, to discover that there was nothing dry about the transaction except the half-starved immigrant. The servants were amazed, and in a quiet way, had fun among themselves to see the amount of provender absorbed, washed down by the dry liquid condiment. The wit of their party, a bright Indian girl, said in Spanish: "He is little and long with big room inside." They had their own fun, assuming my ignorance of the language, as they spoke in Spanish. This was the commencement of a pleasant stay with the family, as one of them. After a good clean-up and fresh raiment obtained, I did not shovel and pick with the peon any more. I was placed apparently on waiting orders at fair wages while apparently the old Don sized me up. Later on he was taken aback when he found that my purpose was to reach San Francisco as soon as possible. I hoped by being there to be sooner placed in communication with Brother Richard. He then told me he had purposed placing me in his large mercantile establishment, believing the young immigrant to be a trustworthy and competent employe, he wanted me to abandon all thought of San Francisco and the mines, by remaining with him, as more likely to trace our Brother from that point. When told that it was too late, that passage for San Francisco had already been secured on the Barque Hector, then at San Pedro, some twenty miles from Los Angeles, he paid me liberally for my services, gave me a fine pair of Mexican blankets and provisions for the trip.

TO TAKE SAIL.

Before declaring my plans and purposes to Don Abel, I had met in Los Angeles the owner of the barque, who offered to take me up to San Francisco on credit for part or all of the passage money. At the port of San Pedro, there were so many wanting to go that it was beyond the legal limit. All had to sign papers securing the owner against prosecution for violating the law. The owner turned out to be Capt. Alex Bell, brother to Col. Minter's wife, then living on Mush Creek, near Pleasant Hill, in Alabama.

HEARS SAD TIDINGS.

In signing my name, he asked: "Are you one of the Alabama Crumptons?" "Yes," was the reply. "Was Dick your brother?" "Yes." "He's dead, poor fellow; died with cholera at Camargo when about to start with Major Graham's party for the Coast." Seeing my distress and shock from such intelligence, he said: "Be of good cheer, my dear boy; Dick was a noble friend to me, I'll be a brother to you." Of course this was comforting. Bell, besides cleaning up quite a lot of money by his passengers, had bought a lot of produce on speculation, jerked beef, dried grapes and corn in the ear. Upon arrival in San Francisco and discharging the passengers, he bought two corn shellers, the only such machines on the coast, and put me to work with others shelling the corn. We did good work and were fed well, an important item for us who had been so long on short rations.

The crew of the ship cleared out for the mines. A ship at anchor in port requires considerable work and attention to keep everything in shipshape, work landmen knew nothing about, but we consented to do as best we knew. It wasn't long, however, before the officers of the ship got overbearing and abusive. "D—n your eyes! Avast there!" etc. We struck and went ashore.

NO PAY FOR SERVICES.

There was quite a sum due me beyond payment of my passage money. This Bell refused to pay, except on condition that there was a return to the ship and the job finished. Refusing to do this, the balance was lost, although he promised to be a brother by proxy. Others sued and got their money. Three others and myself found a job burning charcoal and chopping cord wood from the scrub oaks on the adjacent hills. I remarked to my comrades that I knew nothing about such work. They said it was all right and they would give me a full show and do most of the hard work. It was a standoff, by my cooking and doing other camp duties and marketing our products. Thus we earned enough to get an outfit for the mines.

AT ORO CITY.

We went on a little sloop to Sacramento and from there up the river to where a man had laid out what he called Oro City. He hired us to clear out snags and sawyers, so as to make Bear river navigable down to its mouth into the Feather river, perhaps two miles below. He offered us $12.00 a day without keep, or $8.00 a day and keep, and a place to sleep in our blankets. To make a dead sure thing we accepted the $8.00 per day and keep. The old man had a nice family, a good, motherly wife and two grown daughters, who made it pleasant for us. We got along and gave satisfaction. We noticed, however, frequent half and sometimes whole days off when we were idle. Notwithstanding such loss of time, we did not complain at first, but grew restive and determined to resume our tramp to the mines. When coming to a settlement we fell far short of getting what we thought justly due. For Sunday we were charged $4.00 for a day's board and the same for each day laid off during the week and $2.00 for each half day that the old fellow failed to furnish work.

After accepting these harsh terms, the wise guy of our party vouchsafed the following: "Well, old Rooster, although masquerading as an honest old Missouri farmer, in thus tricking us boys, had we stayed much longer, we'd have been in your debt. In this transaction you have out-yanked the shrewdest Yankee we have thus far met."

IN THE MINES.

We struck the mines at the mouth of Deer creek, where it empties in the Yuba river, and worked along the banks, finally settling in a comfortable camp where the splendid little mountain city, Nevada, has since grown up. We were lucky in soon having good returns for our work, beyond what the Oro City man had promised us, and so continued until the spring of 1850. Then we secured a promising layout on the upper South Yuba river, perhaps thirty miles away, and commenced active operations to turn the river as soon as the snow water subsided. Results were not satisfactory, blowing into the Yuba Dam all our previous earnings. I returned to Sacramento, lured thither by a $200.00 per month job offered me on my way up to the mines.

But the immigration of 1850 was arriving, and Sacramento was full of idle men, glad to work on any terms offered, so my traps were shouldered for a start back for the mines, where a new location was made.

AT ROUGH-AND-READY.

Met with good success during the following winter, in the spring of 1851 another change was made, to Auburn, then called Woods' Dry Diggings. Here I staid with good success until the fall of 1853. I determined to visit the old folks at home and to finish my medical studies at New Orleans. Accompanying me was my dear old mining partner, Tom Dixon, of Marengo county.

STARTS BACK HOME.

We started from our California home, Auburn, so as to have several days in San Francisco before the sailing of the Panama steamer.

He found a Dr. A. S. Wright, who advertised himself as "Banker and Assayer," who offered Dix a bigger price than anyone else would give for his gold dust, provided he would take draft on New Orleans, payable in sixty days after sight. Besides the $3,000.00 thus disposed of, he had quite a little reserve, which he persisted in "toting" on his person—a source of worry and nervous anxiety, contributing to the general breakdown that followed.

IN A WRECK.

We left San Francisco in the crack steamship Winfield Scott with an opposition steamer racing us from the start via Nicaragua. At midnight, the second day out, our ship struck a rock and sank. There was a calm sea and plenty of time to save all hands and land them on an adjacent island, Aracapa, with a limited amount of provisions, which were doled out stintedly twice a day. There was rarely enough given out to go around. Out of 500 souls, perhaps as many as twenty-five would get nothing. Tom was nearly always one of them. My little allowance was always shared with him. When reproved for not rushing in with me to secure his share, he replied: "O, Kiah, I don't like to crowd." When assured he would have to go hungry, as I wouldn't divide any longer, he got a move on him and got there with the foremost. There was no water on the island, but the tanks of fresh water on the steamer remained intact and were brought on shore in boats. One day, when assisting in this work and undertaking to help myself to a drink, the cup was knocked from my lips by one of the crew, who said: "Let that water alone until I tell you to drink, you ——." After the fellow was pretty badly used up, the cup was refilled and drank with gusto, with no further molestation. One usually makes friends when showing pluck to resent such an outrage, and this fellow slunk like a whipped cur. When the affray was over, Dick was hard by gritting his teeth, with fists doubled up, just ready for war.

ON TO PANAMA.

After a ten days stay, we sailed pleasantly to Panama. We had hard experiences in crossing the Isthmus. The railroad had been completed but a few miles at its eastern terminus. As a large number of our comrades had determined to cross on foot, instead of paying a fabulous price for mule hire, we determined to be of the number. Much of my stuff was thrown away to make my pack as light as possible, but Dick was in love with all he had, which he wanted to take home as souvenirs, besides the gold dust strapped to his person. With his heavy load, he soon began to lag; first one article and then another was transferred from his shoulders to mine. He was almost heart broken when we were forced to lighten cargo from time to time, abandoning different things on the march, in order to keep up with our comrades. Upon my releasing him from his incubus of gold dust, he stepped rather spryly for a time. I kept him in front and pushed him along, bullied and scared him by fear of robbers, who we heard of attacking, robbing and some times killing others. Poor fellow, he was used up and collapsed upon reaching the steamer. He was abed most of the time until we reached New Orleans.

IN NEW ORLEANS.

Upon presentation of his $3,000.00 check, not on a bank, but on a respectable mercantile house, we were told that they knew nothing of the San Francisco Banker and Assayer. As the check was not due for sixty days, they explained the funds might be received with which to pay it.

We passed over to Mobile after Dick rested a few days, where, fortunately, we found an old friend of his. It was a great relief to me, as poor Dick had been a burden. Besides the terrible ordeal of other vicissitudes through which we had just passed, was the worry of the probable loss of his $3,000.00 cheap-john check. He was in a state of mental as well as physical collapse. As soon as able to travel, his friends kindly escorted Dixon to his home, up the Tombigbee to Demopolis.

FINDS HIS BROTHER.

I found brother William in Mobile, where he had a fine position in business and stood well socially.

A returned successful Californian was something of a show, a rather annoying feature of my stay in Mobile, which prompted an early exit for Camden and out to Pine Apple where our people lived. After a nice visit, finding the old folks up in pretty good shape, I started for New Orleans, with a view of resuming my medical studies. Upon my arrival at Mobile, I found poor brother William down with pneumonia.

DETAINED IN MOBILE.

Although under the care of two of the most eminent doctors of that city, my trip to New Orleans was abandoned to remain with him as nurse. After a long siege they gave him up as beyond recovery. This being known, brought what was intended as a farewell greeting from a host of old friends who comforted him on his being resigned and prepared for the change. Although having little hope myself, I tried to dispel from his mind the idea that a fatal ending was inevitable, and partially succeeded. Although they abandoned the case, the doctors were asked to give him a little champagne. They flippantly responded: "Give him all he wants." Two quart bottles were obtained and the poor fellow smacked his lips after having a small wine glass full. This I kept up every hour. The effect was marvelous. He was so revived that I felt justified in leaving him to take a little rest and sleep, after stupidly repeating the Doctor's words: "give him all he wants," to those left in charge. They had seen the cautious small doses given and at intervals of an hour. After more than an hour's refreshing slumber, I found the poor fellow in great distress, retching and vomiting, hovering near life's end. After being snatched from the jaws of death by the judicious use of an agent, he was almost gone by the injudicious overdosing with the same.

Though no more than an inexperienced, half-baked doctor, no other was called and no more chances taken of his being killed through kindness, not to say innate stupidity. After this episode, the invalid progressed rapidly to full recovery and we went to Camden within a month; there he was soon fully restored. He abandoned a fine position and prospects in Mobile and remained in Wilcox and in the fall was elected to office by the largest majority ever given in the county. In this position, he was exposed a good deal to vicissitudes of weather and in time had another attack of pneumonia, which took him off—a noble, true man.

Business complications of my old friend Dixon demanded

IMMEDIATE ATTENTION IN CALIFORNIA,

and he prevailed on me to return and act as his agent. The poor fellow turned the collection of his $3,000.00 protested check over to me, as business agent, whose knowledge of business was almost as limited as his own. I was fortunate, however, in seeking assistance in proper quarters. The check, having been presented when due, but not paid, went to protest. Upon calling at the New Orleans house on my way to California they predicted Wright would not be found on my arrival.

Added to the wear and tear of nursing brother William and other, perhaps, unnecessary exposures, after two weeks stay on the Isthmus, I was attacked with Panama fever before the steamer reached Acapulco; but in cooler weather, by the time we had reached San Francisco, I was in fairly good shape. Upon my arrival, I was fortunate enough to be placed in contact with two of the biggest banking houses in town, who, after some fun with me, as the victim of the agent, gave me all the aid possible in recovering the money. Old Wright was badly scared and humiliated at the exposure, which came sooner than he anticipated. He fillibustered, quibbled, said he had forwarded the money and knew it had been paid at the other end of the line, but he was outgeneraled on every turn and finally refunded every dollar, which, less a small sum for incidentals, was sent to Dixon in a check on a Mobile bank. Within a short time, Wright and the old bankers who helped hold him up, all went to the wall.

BACK TO THE MINES AGAIN.

After getting the Dixon matter settled, I left San Francisco for my old haunts in the mines at Auburn. Not a great while afterwards, heard from a dear old mining partner, who some time previous left for the north, when I left Rough-and-Ready for Auburn. He wrote me he had a valuable discovery at what is now Yreka, near the Oregon line, requesting me to join and share with him all there was in it. Usually rather reserved about exposing my plans for the future, my intended prospects to join Tom Ward got to be known among others, by an enterprising thief, who went through my effects one night and stole most of my ready means on the eve of my departure. With plenty of help, he was captured and my money recovered. The necessary law's delay to appear against him knocked out my contemplated trip. The fellow was finally tried, convicted, and served a term in the penitentiary. While waiting for this, I bought into the old Rough-and-Ready mine at Forest Hill, first one share, one-eighth interest—had but little to do with it, but, as others got discouraged, secured additional interests, struggled hard, lived stintedly, and when at last the mine began to yield fair returns, owned five-eighths interest. I closed out in five years with more money than sense, and

RETURNED TO ALABAMA,

purposing to first finish my studies in medicine, then to buy a plantation and the darkies thereon. My original purpose was to enter Tulane University, New Orleans, but the Medical Department of the State University in Mobile was chosen. Scores of people knew me and I was soon a social lion, a bad predicament for a student anxious to cram and learn all possible in a given time. At the end of the term I felt too green to submit to an examination, which made it necessary to attend another term to secure the degree. This I did at another Institution, and later an honored professional standing was attained.

HIS OPINION ABOUT SLAVERY.

Following close on the term in Mobile, the spring and part of the summer were spent in Wilcox and Dallas, visiting among relatives and old friends of our family. Perhaps it was to our cousin, Ulma Crumpton, my views on the negro question were expressed about thus: "Well, my purpose in leaving California was to finally settle down on a plantation with the ownership of as many darkies as my means would buy, but after being away from the institution so long and seeing the harrassing cares and annoyances connected with managing and providing for the creatures, my sympathies are with those of you who are responsible to God and man for their humane treatment. The darkey has the best of it. I would not swap places with you. I wouldn't accept as a gift the best plantation and darkies thereon and be forced to continue as such owner."

HOME OF DR. H. J. CRUMPTON, PIEDMONT, CALIFORNIA

[Part Two]

By W. B. Crumpton

The Adventures of W. B. Crumpton, going to and returning from California, including his Lecture, "The Original Tramp, or How a Boy Got through the Lines to the Confederacy"

HOW I BEGAN TO LECTURE.

THE following is about the way I tell it:

The story I am to tell relates my own personal adventures, which I often told around the fire-side, with no dream of its ever assuming the shape of a lecture. My old friend, Col. J. T. Murfee, President of Howard College, insisted that I should turn it into a lecture. My reply was: "Some day, when I have time, I may sit down and write it out, dressing it up with beautiful language, weaving in some poetry, and then branch out as a full fledged lecturer." I suppose the leisure time never would have come and probably the lecture never been delivered but for a fool-hardy spell that possessed me on one occasion when I was in Mt. Sterling, Ky. A brother said: "Our Baptist young people want you to deliver a lecture. You are going to be here several days. Could you not do so?" And I promptly said "Yes." The next question was: "What is the name of the lecture?" I had never thought of that before, but I blurted out: "How a boy got through the Lines to the Confederacy." "How much do you charge?" That was a new question too, but I ventured to say: "About one-half." So it was arranged and a dodger was gotten out by the preacher and printer headed: "War, War, War." It was the time of the Spanish-American war and it ran about this way: "Dr. W. B. Crumpton, of Georgetown, Ky., being in our city for a few days has kindly consented to deliver his famous lecture at the Court House tonight at 7:30 o'clock for the benefit of the Baptist Young People's Union. It is a rare opportunity our citizens have to hear this distinguished lecturer. Come one, come all. A treat awaits you. Admission Ten Cents." The old people concluded, as long as the price was so small, that it was only a funny story I was going to relate to the young people and they were conspicuous by their absence.

After spending a nervous afternoon, I went out to the Court House and found about a hundred and fifty young people and children gathered. I said to myself: "You have made yourself a fool now. These children will all be asleep in about ten minutes, and you will be ashamed of yourself the balance of your life for attempting to lecture." When I was through with the story, only two very small kids were asleep, so I took it as a good indication that I had something worth while. I returned to my home, taking with me some of the fine circulars for the amusement of my family, and concluded to make a further test by giving a free lecture in the College Chapel. It was well advertised and probably five hundred people were present, many old veterans and a large number of students. When I was through, parties congratulated me, and I concluded that I could afford to continue spinning the yarn. So I have delivered the lecture in a great many places, wherever the young people or women would get up an audience.

The lecture was called the "Original Tramp; or How a boy got through the lines to the Confederacy." One pious old sister who heard it suggested that the name be changed to: "How the Lord took care of a boy while going through the lines," and I cheerfully accept the amended form.

It is not a religious lecture. The boy I am to tell about was not working at religion much, though a member of the church. But I hope there will be discovered the marks of an over-ruling Providence running like a silver thread through all the story. He has believed, for many years, the Lord had him in hand, though he knew it not, preparing him for the task that has been his for many years. If some reader shall come to believe in the Guiding Hand in his or her own life, I shall be happy.

The lecture began with my return from California; but I have concluded to give the whole narrative, beginning with my first start to California, and let the reader pick out where the "Famous Lecture" begins.

[Chapter I]

A boy's best friend; A boy without ambition; "A sucker ready to bite at any bait"; Remembers his brother's counsel; Off to sea; Completely transformed.

I once heard a blind man sing—I remember one line of the chorus:

"A BOY'S BEST FRIEND IS HIS MOTHER."

How true is that and the poor boy doesn't realize it until the mother is taken from him. After she is gone out of the home, the world is never again what it was to him.

My home was broken up by the death of my mother when I was only thirteen. I became a wanderer. Sometimes I worked on a farm, sometimes I went to school, after a fashion. When my brother, an "old forty-niner," as the first gold-hunters in California were called, visited relatives at Pleasant Hill in Dallas county, he found me in school. He thought that travel would be the best schooling for me. So he asked me one day how I would like to go to California. My answer in the negative amazed him. I was perfectly content to remain where I was. I was honest about it. I had been to Montgomery, Selma, Cahaba and Prattville, and had frequently seen steam boats on the Alabama—had actually ridden on one—had but one desire as to travel ungratified. I wanted some day to go to Mobile and then to East Mississippi to see my kin. I had determined to make that trip if I lived to be grown; beyond that I had no ambition to see the world.

This satisfied condition indicated to my brother that

I WAS WITHOUT AMBITION.

This distressed him no little. Through another party he approached me next time. I was asked if I would be willing to go to California to look after some business for my brother; then to return if I desired. To this proposition, I readily consented. It seems ludicrous, indeed, now to think of sending an ignorant boy on such a journey, to "look after business;" but I fell into the scheme and felt my importance as never before.

My brother was wise and knew the ways of the world and was kind enough to accompany me as far as he could. First he took me down the Alabama to Mobile, then sent me alone up the M. & O. (the first railroad I ever saw) to Enterprise, Miss., to visit my relatives beyond there in Jasper county. I hired a horse and buggy from a Mr. Edmonson and drove out twenty-four miles to my brother-in-law's home. Returning, he accompanied me to Montgomery by boat, thence by rail to Savannah, Charleston, Wilmington, Richmond, Baltimore, Washington, Philadelphia and finally to New York, two days before the time for the steamer to sail. We lay over a day at most of the cities mentioned to give me a chance to learn some of the ways of the world. I was a

"SUCKER, READY TO BITE AT ANY BAIT."

I doubt if ever a boy started on so long a trip as green as I. One incident will show my ignorance. While in New York, one afternoon, I saw a great commotion on the streets. Going out I saw my first fire engine. The engine was of the old kind, with long ropes attached, pulled by men. There the poor fellows were toiling over the rough streets, tugging at the ropes and frantically appealing to the crowds of people who lined the sidewalks to come to their aid. I had read of great fires destroying large cities and turning multitudes out as homeless wanderers, and I made sure that just such a thing was about to happen to New York. I was paralyzed at the utter indifference of the people who gazed unmoved at the heroic firemen and turned a deaf ear to their appeals. I could stand it no longer, so I leaped out into the street and seized the rope. I was a tall, slim, awkward lad, about eighteen years old, thin as a match, pale as a ghost and had on a long Jim Swinger. The crowd cheered, but I didn't know what it was about. The firemen encouraged me, of course. "Go it, my laddie, brave boy; now we'll save the town," were some of the cheering remarks the firemen spoke as I tugged away with all my might on the rope. "Stand up, my son," was another, as I slipped on the cobble stones. The fire reached, I was put in position with the others to pump the machine. I knew nothing of what was going on, for I was intent on trying to save the town. After awhile, by the awkwardness of some fellow who held the nozzle (of course it was all accidental) the stream struck me full in the breast and I was nearly drowned. A great shout went up from the crowd, and I realized that the eyes of several thousand spectators, who had been drawn to the fire, were centered on me. I guessed afterward that the fire, which I never saw, had been subdued, and they were having a little sport at my expense.

I turned loose the pump as though I had been shot, drew my overcoat tight about me, for it was very cold, and darted through the crowd, going I knew not whither. Fortunately

MY BROTHER'S COUNSEL CAME TO MY AID:

"If you ever get lost in a city, don't try to find your way back, but hail the first hack you see, and tell the driver to take you to your hotel." This I did, and as the carriage rumbled over the streets across several blocks, I was wishing and praying that I might get to my room without being seen by my brother. He was not in the lobby of the hotel, and I was congratulating myself, as I wearily toiled up the stairs, that I had missed him, and he would never know of my misfortune; but I was doomed to disappointment. Opening the door, there he was in the room! As I stood before him, bedraggled with mud and water, his eyes opened wide and he took me in. "Where have you been?" he exclaimed. I gasped out: "To the fire!" He was not a prayer-meeting man, and I will not repeat his language. As he rolled on the bed, yelling like a Comanche Indian, I was utterly disgusted with him. I saw nothing to laugh about. I have never helped at a fire since then, and when I hear the fire alarm and see the engine in its mad rush, I am inclined to want to go in the other direction.

OFF TO SEA

is a beautiful thing to read about, but it has a serious side. I didn't mind separating with my brother so much. He had introduced me to the captain and purser of the steamer, besides these, I knew not a soul. I was much interested, for the hour or two before nightfall, watching the shipping. Everything was new to me, but darkness came down upon us before we were out of the harbor. I shall never forget the sensation when the vessel struck the first billow of the rolling ocean. As the old vessel lurched forward, and her timbers began to creak, some one said: "That's pretty strong for a starter." Another said: "Shouldn't wonder if we didn't have a rough voyage." And yet another: "It is always dangerous at sea in March." For the first time I began to get alarmed. I watched the swinging lamps, the supper tables that looked as if they were going over and spill all the dishes; the sick passengers as they flew either to their staterooms or to the upper deck. Only a little while elapsed before I was in bed myself, wishing for my brother and abusing myself for ever undertaking the trip.

Oh! the desolation and loneliness of that horrid night as I rolled with every motion of the vessel! I never slept a wink. Next morning I looked out of the port-hole and saw the mad waves of the ocean. To my surprise the sun was shining; but it looked to me like a storm was raging. I learned afterwards that the Atlantic is always rough and that I was the only one on board who was much alarmed. Three days and nights I kept my bed from sheer fright and home-sickness. I know it was not sea-sickness, for I tested myself, time and time again, afterwards and never had the first symptom.

I had about made up my mind that I would never see the home folks again, but would die in a few days and be buried in the ocean. The third day the old Captain came in on his rounds of inspection. When he found that I was not sick, he shouted: "Pshaw, boy, get out of this and be a man; get on deck and get a sniff of the salt air and you will be all right in two minutes and as hungry as a wolf. Out, out with you; be a man." In less time than it takes to write it

I WAS COMPLETELY TRANSFORMED.

All my fears were gone and I found the Captain's words true. As I looked at the hundreds of people on the open deck, there were eight hundred passengers, all happy and cheerful, I felt disgraced to have been such a coward. There was the boundless ocean on every side. No sign of land anywhere and, strange to say, I was not a bit afraid. The reassuring words of the Captain had saved me. Many a poor fellow has given up and gone down in the battle of life, who might have been saved if someone had only spoken the cheering words in time.

Down through the tropical islands to Aspinwall, now called Colon, across the Isthmus of Darien, where the Panama Canal is now being constructed, on the railroad to the ancient city of Panama and up the beautiful Pacific into the lovely harbor of Acapulco, Mexico, where we stopped a day for coal, and finally through the Golden Gate; we dropped anchor in the Bay of San Francisco, just twenty-four days from New York. Not a soul in all the great city did I know; but I was soon in the hands of the friends of my brother. I felt like Mrs. Partington when she struck land after being to sea, she exclaimed: "Thank the Lord for terra cotta," and I promised myself never again to get on an ocean steamer.

[Chapter Two]

Looking for a job; A hostler; In San Francisco; Packing gold through the streets; Moves to Oakland; Impulse to shout "Hurrah for Jeff Davis."

IN THE diggings, among the miners, I spent three months, "keeping bach," with a genteel old Scotchman, in my brother's cabin on the mountain side. From the little stoop in front of my cabin, I could see villages of Digger Indians, Chinese and Greasers, and people from every nation of the earth.

Later I was introduced to a Bostonian who was sheriff of Placer county. He had been told I was

LOOKING FOR A JOB.

He turned his cold, grey eyes on me and said: "I knew old Crump—he was never afraid of work; but Southern boys generally feel themselves above it. I wonder if you are that way. I want somebody to be here about the court house and jail all the time to keep things cleaned up and to feed and curry my four horses. Can you curry horses? Are you ashamed of it? Suppose sometime when you were with your overalls on, currying horses, a pretty girl comes along the street, guess you'd run up in the loft and hide, eh? Now, for that sort of work for a boy about your age, I have fifty dollars a month and grub. What do you say?" My! how he did fire the questions at me and how his grey eyes did snap and pierce me through! Fifty dollars a month was a big thing in my eyes. I was a little on my mettle to show the Boston Yankee what a Southern boy could do if he tried. So I became

A HOSTLER

for nine months. I was used to all kinds of work on the farm, but never had any occasion to become an expert—with the curry comb. I was privileged to belt a pistol about me and guard a prisoner while he did the work, if I liked; but generally I preferred doing the work myself.

For the benefit of my own boys and others who may chance to read these lines, I want to record it: the three months roughing it in the miner's cabin, and the nine months currying Sheriff Bullock's horses, made a year of most valuable training for me. I learned more that twelve months than in any of my life, except the years later in the Civil War.

I was always fond of the girls. I was never in any place long before I was well acquainted with a number of the nicest in the town. Instead of running up in the loft to hide when they came along, many a pleasant chat did I have, standing before the stable door with my overalls on and my sleeves rolled up to my elbows. My brother, returning from the States, took me

TO SAN FRANCISCO

and put me in school. Some of my leisure time he expected me to look after his business. My ignorance of business methods is well illustrated by the following incident: He went away, leaving a note of something over three thousand dollars. It was in the hands of a lawyer friend and was not due. He told me he would send me a draft to pay that note.

I didn't know what a draft was; but it finally came in the mail by the steamer which came once a month.

I could hardly sleep that night for fear somebody would steal it. I felt sure something was going to happen to me before I got the note paid. I had read of hold-ups at night, and even in day time parties had been enticed into dark alleys and robbed. Next morning it looked as if the bank would never open its doors. I passed and repassed, afraid to stop and look in, for fear some one would suspect I had some money and would lay a trap for me. Finally the door opened and I was the first to enter. I presented the draft. It was the proudest act of my life. The fellow looked at it, and then at me, turned it over, looked on a book, cut his eye at me again, then looked at his watch, asked me some more questions, then went in a back room and was gone, oh! so long. "Surely," I began to think, "maybe he will slip out of the back door and I will never see my draft anymore." But finally he returned with another man. I can't recall it all now, but after a while it was arranged and the man asked: "What do you want for this?" "Want gold," was my reply. I had heard of bank notes that were not good—there were no green backs then. I was determined to be on the safe side. Nothing but gold would satisfy me. "Mighty heavy for you to pack," he said, but I knew of no other way. Two sacks were given me. My! how my eyes opened as the money was counted into the sacks in $20 gold pieces. I had never seen so much money before.

TAKING A SACK IN EACH HAND, I TRUDGED AWAY UP THE STREET.

Block after block was passed and finally I went up the stairway and stood almost breathless in the lawyer's office. Depositing my treasure on a chair, I said: "Mr. Anderson, that note is due today and I have come to pay it." "All right, my boy, you could have waited three days longer if you wished," was the lawyer's kind reply. I had been impressed with the exact date and thought it so fortunate that the steamer arrived just the day before the note fell due. I thought something awful would happen if it was not promptly settled, when due. I knew nothing of days of grace. "But what have you in those sacks," queried the lawyer in a kindly tone. "That's the money," I replied. Of course the laugh was on me. There I got my first lesson in banking. The draft endorsed by me, would have suited him much better than the two sacks of gold coin. So I was a "gold bug" when William Jennings Bryan was a kid, and I have never changed my platform.

I chanced one Saturday to go

TO OAKLAND,

quite a nice town then—now a great city. My brother had told me of an old friend of his over there, Judge McKee, and I called on him. I found him to be an intense Southerner. His wife was a Miss Davis, from Mississippi, a kinswoman of Jeff Davis, afterwards President of the Confederacy. It so happened that there was to be a gathering of young people at his house that night and they were all Southern people. Of course I was not slow to accept an invitation to remain over. Such a company of fire-eating Southerners I had no idea could be gotten together in California. All the talk was about secession. All the songs were of the South. I heard Dixie for the first time. I had been boarding with a New Bedford Yankee—an abolitionist, a South hater. It required only a hint on the part of my new friends to make a great change in my living. I went to Oakland College, selected a room, and two days later I was out of the great city and over the bay where every week I could visit my Southern friends and talk "secesh." The more we talked, of course, the madder I got and when the war broke out a few weeks later, the spirit of rebellion was hot within me. It was a time of great excitement and great danger. On a Friday night I went over to the city. The next morning as I was dressing, I thought I heard an unusual tone in the voices of the newsboys and I heard excited voices on the street and in the hotel. When I reached the sidewalk I heard the cry: "Here's the Morning Call! All about the great battle of Bull Run." "Federal troops falling back on Washington, pursued by the Rebel army. Rebel army marching on the Capital." My first impulse was to shout:

"HURRAH FOR JEFF DAVIS!"

Had I done so, I would have been torn to pieces by crowds surging through the streets. All business was suspended, the streets were jammed. I bought a paper and got out of the crowd as quickly as possible. I hardly stirred out of the office of my friend all day, so fearful was he that my mouth would get me into trouble. The next day I attended Dr. Scott's church (Presbyterian) where I frequently went because he was from New Orleans. His and the Methodist Church, South, were the only churches which did not have flag staffs on them. A mob gathered on Saturday night and burned the old doctor in effigy and wrapped the lamp posts and the front of the church in American flags. In the streets Sunday morning was a wild mob of several thousand. The house was packed with an immense audience of men—only two ladies present, one the wife of the preacher. The sermon was a plain gospel sermon, with no reference whatever to the surroundings. After the service a large company of police fought their way through the crowd at the head of the carriage which conveyed the preacher and his family. On the next steamer, the good man sailed for New York, where I afterwards learned, he was pastor of a Presbyterian church during the four years of the war. It is impossible for one who was not there, to conceive of the excitement. Dr. Scott had said nothing to provoke this outbreak, except at the meeting of his Presbytery, he protested against the custom then prevailing of putting flag staffs on the church buildings. Though I was a Baptist, I did not affiliate much with the people of my faith because they had gone into politics—the preacher's prayers and sermons being leveled against the South. O. P. Fitzgerald, now a Bishop in Nashville, was pastor of the little Methodist Church, South, in the city. He had regular appointments at Oakland in the afternoons. I became very fond of him and he knew me right well. When the Southern Baptist Convention met in Nashville some years ago, the aged Bishop was introduced to the body. After the close of the session I approached him with the remarks: "You never saw me before?" Instantly he replied: "Yes, sir, this is Crumpton. I knew you by your voice." It had been thirty years since we had met. In such an atmosphere as we breathed in California in those days, it is not strange that Southern sympathizers began laying plans and schemes for getting back South.

[Chapter Three]

A firm resolve broken; A layover at Pittsburg; At Beloit, Wis.; The fall of Fort Donelson.

COMPANIES were secretly organized and meeting places agreed upon far out on the eastern border. Some of these companies were butchered by the Indians; others overtaken and captured by the Federal cavalry. My brother, suspecting my state of mind, came out and we held a conference. He had large interests there and some in Alabama. He proposed to leave me there to look after his affairs while he came through the lines; but that was not my mind at all. I announced my purpose to go. He was opposed to my attempting the trip across the plains no matter how strong the company that accompanied me. He wanted me to run no risks. He planned the trip—back over the same route to New York, thence to Wisconsin to the home of an old friend, to remain until spring—meantime, corresponding with Col. U. S. Grant, the military commander at Cairo, Ill., to get a pass, if possible, on some pretext or other, through the lines.

MY FIRM RESOLVE

against ever again going on an ocean steamer had to be broken. I was in a condition of mind which would have made me willing to attempt the trip in a balloon. On November 30, 1861, I took the steamer. On January 1st, I reached my destination at Beloit, Wis. The trip was full of interesting incidents, but I mention only two. I made the acquaintance on the steamer of a Marylander, who had been in California for many years. His destination was Baltimore. He expected to get through the lines and join the Confederate cavalry. When we reached New York, he gave me a little four barrel Sharp's pistol with one hundred cartridges. He expected to equip himself with something more formidable. This, the only pistol I ever owned, was one of the most harmless weapons I ever saw. I mention it now only to introduce it later.

Reaching Panama and boarding the Isthmus train, I observed a frail young fellow in the uniform of a lieutenant of U. S. Navy passing through the train frequently, viewing with some care the passengers. He seemed to let his gaze rest upon me each time, in a way to make me a little uncomfortable. Was it possible, I thought, that somebody had found out my secret and had sent this chap aboard to look me out and arrest me when I reached Aspinwall? In the few hours ride across the Isthmus, I worked myself up to a very unhappy state of mind. It was after dark when we got aboard the steamer North Star, the same I had gone out in, which the Government afterwards purchased and turned into a gunboat. While the passengers were all in line approaching the office to have their rooms assigned, I was approached by the young officer who asked to see me. My heart flew up in my throat. All my fears were about to be realized. I felt sure I'd be on a man-of-war and in irons in a few minutes. I controlled myself enough to protest that if I should leave the line I would lose my place and have to drop back to the foot. "I want to see you about that very thing," he said. "I have a room for you." My eyes, I know were nearly as big as saucers, and I must have been pale as a sheet. I made some reply and remained in line. "Come," he said in a very earnest, tender tone, "I have seen the captain and he has given me a room and permitted me to choose my own room-mate, and I have picked you out." I felt reassured, and followed him to the identical berth I had suffered tortures in nearly two years before.

In a little while he had discovered that I was Southern and he turned out to be a Virginian, who was playing sick and was off on a furlough. "There is nothing the matter with me," he said, "I expect to be in the Confederate Navy in thirty days." But in spite of this remark, his uniform scared me and I gave him no intimations of my intentions. My old Maryland friend and I tied on to each other. Neither of us sought acquaintances with others of the passengers.

On the way from Jersey City to Chicago, I was left while at dinner at Altoona, Pa. My baggage of course went on.

THIS REQUIRED A LAY-OVER AT PITTSBURG,

where my belongings had been stopped. The day happened to be Sunday. Growing tired of the hotel, I thought to walk about the city some after dinner. Picking up the city directory I glanced through it curiously and chanced to see the name "Crumpton." Over the river, in Alleghaney City, there seemed to be quite a family of them. I took the number of the street and went in quest of kins folk, not dreaming of trouble. Finding the place, I rang the bell and found the family at dinner. I was ushered into the parlor and left alone.

Glancing around the room, I saw American flags everywhere and the pictures of Lincoln and Hamlin, the President and Vice-President. "What a fool I am," I thought. My curiosity had gotten me into trouble; but I must get out somehow. To slip out of the house, while the family were yet at dinner would never do. I determined to face the difficulty. I never knew why I was named Washington unless it was because the father of his country was born on February 22nd and I on the 24th. However, you must remember there were several years intervening between the birthdays of these two distinguished men. I was very unlike my illustrious namesake. He never could tell a lie, I had been successful in the attempt several times; but I could not hide a lie. If any one looked straight at me I would betray myself. On this occasion, I stuck as near the truth as I could and I guess the story was plausible; at least it was not questioned.

I learned from the two young men, who met me in the parlor, that their father was an Episcopal clergyman, out of the city that day; that he had several sons in the Union army, and these were getting ready to go. I was pressed earnestly to remain over night and see the father, but I was pressed for time and turned a deaf ear to all their appeals and, as soon as possible, excused myself and returned to the hotel. I was afraid of my new found kin; but they were hard to shake off. One of the young men accompanied me to the hotel and that night returned with an earnest invitation from the father, who had returned, to visit him before I left the city. A great weight was lifted when he left me and I boarded the train for Chicago. At Altoona and Pittsburg, in the hotel lobbies, I was compelled to hear war talk of the most offensive character by the crowds of loafers who thronged there to hear the news. It was only a few miles to the West Virginia line. The war was on everybody's lips. There I sat in the midst of the talkers, one lone Southerner, with a secret purpose in my mind which would have brought me into trouble if it has been suspected. My lips were sealed of course, but sometimes it was very hard to keep silent.

AT BELOIT, WISCONSIN,

or rather, four miles in the country, I met a warm welcome from my brother's old friends. He had met them in California in the early days. I learned also that there was a match brewing between him and the oldest daughter, which was afterwards consummated.

How the snow did pile up soon after I reached Wisconsin! I had never seen the like before. My friends, knowing that I was a Southerner and unused to such severe weather, were as tender of me as if I had been a baby; but in a few days I did not at all mind it. Winter time is the time for visiting in the North, and so I was on the go with the family much of the time. Another way I spent my time was to go out in the deep snow in the fields. Sometimes a rabbit, frightened at my crushing through the crust of the snow, would jump out of his hole ten feet away and sit for a moment, loath to run away in the cold. Many a time I emptied my pistol at him and would then throw the gun at him before he would run away. That gun will be heard from again. Without any talk about it, I secured a large map of the "Seat of the war in the West." This I put on the wall in the dining room. It gave all the public roads. With the study of the map, I read diligently the Chicago Daily Times, which gave the movements of troops along the route I might choose. I picked out two routes; one through Southeast Missouri, the other through Kentucky and Tennessee, both branching out from Southern Illinois. My brother hoped I would become satisfied to remain in this lovely Northern home and go to school, but I was bent on going to the war. I did as he suggested, however; I corresponded with Col. U. S. Grant, commandant of the post at Cairo, Ill., afterwards the great General and twice President, asking for a pass-port south, and received a very kind letter in reply, but denying the request.

I might have remained in Wisconsin until spring, when I could have had better weather and more money, but for an incident I will presently relate.

THE FALL OF FT. DONELSON,

in Tennessee, was a fearful blow to me. Of course there was great exultation everywhere up North. I saw and heard it all, but could say nothing. One day while in Beloit, I saw a great crowd on the sidewalk. Drawing near I discovered the attraction. It was a butternut jeans jacket, which had been taken off a dead Confederate at Ft. Donelson. It was shot through and was saturated with blood. On it was a large placard with these words:

"Taken from the dead body of Private Turner of the Mississippi Rifles on the battlefield of Fort Donelson."

I gazed at it for a moment and heard the exultant laugh and jeers from the toughs who gathered about it. I turned away with clenched teeth, determined to go South at all hazards and at once I announced to my friends that evening that I was going to Chicago, a hundred miles away, next morning to see the Fort Donelson prisoners who were confined in Camp Douglas.

[Chapter Four]

Gets a pass into Camp Douglas; Learns first lesson in "Shut-mouth"; Starts afoot out of Chicago; Frogs in the throat; Pawns his pistol; Rides with Federal soldiers; Across the Mississippi.

I HAD only a little money. I could have gotten more from my friends if I had asked for it, but I thought possibly I might be captured and traced back to their home and get them in trouble. I wanted them to have the privilege of saying they knew nothing at all about my plans and for the same reason, I did not care for them to know of my intentions. Lest I should create some suspicion, I took no satchel with me. On the 6th of March, 1862, I started. With a shawl securely strapped, in which I had slipped a shirt, with every scratch of pen or pencil, by which I might be identified, destroyed, I bade farewell to my friends, with no expectation of returning again.

I shall say now and then that things "happened," but I do not believe that things happen. I think they are all a part of the chain of God's great plan.

It so happened that I put up at the Madison House in passing through Chicago, and so I naturally went back to the same place in returning to the city, and this happened to be the headquarters of Col. Mulligan, the Commandant of Camp Douglas. Arriving there in the middle of the afternoon, I got aboard a street car and went out to the Camp. Looking through the open gate, I saw for the first time Confederate soldiers. They were all dressed in butternut jeans. In the beginning, the Confederates did not wear the grey, because they did not have it. The cloth made all over the country by the mothers and sisters was jeans, the color of butternut.

Returning to the hotel, after supper I wrote the very best note I could to Col. Mulligan and sent it up to his rooms. Expecting every moment to be called up into his office, it seemed that minutes were hours. I am sure, if my fears had been realized, it would have taken only about two questions to have tangled me. What would have happened then, I have no idea, but I guess I would have been arrested and probably thrown into prison as a Southern sympathizer. But to my great delight, the servant returned with a silver waiter and on it was a nice little card, saying:

"LET MR. W. B. CRUMPTON INTO THE CAMP TOMORROW."

As soon as I could get my breakfast the next morning I was on my way to the Camp. On entering the open gate, I saw the barracks of an Alabama regiment. The Barracks, were long, low buildings. The Camp was laid off like a city, with streets and alleys. I entered the building at once and in a moment was surrounded by a large number of men. I said: "You are Alabamians, and so am I. I have been to California. I am on my way back. I expect to start tomorrow morning from this City, to go through the lines and join the Confederate army." I rattled off the words very rapidly, never realizing for a moment the danger I might be in. When I reached the end of the sentence, I looked into their faces, and they looked like boards, not a feature indicated any sympathy for what I said. It was paralyzing; but fortunately a Mississippian happened to be in the crowd. Why he was there I never did know, but when I had finished my speech, he said: "Did you say your name was Crumpton?" I said "yes." "And do your father and sisters live in Mississippi?" I said "yes." "And did you visit them before you went to California?" I replied "yes, two years ago." "Well," he said, "I belong to a Company right from their neighborhood. I did not see you, but I heard the people speaking about your visit. Come with me and I will introduce you to the boys who can tell you about your people." He took me to his barracks, several hundred yards from where I was, carried me into a back, dark corner, and said in a low tone: "You are in great danger. You must keep your mouth shut. I am not surprised at your being carried away at meeting those Alabamians, but there is a rumor out among us that they have agreed to go West and fight the Indians and relieve the Regulars there, who will be sent to the front and we all believe it." [In all my travels in Alabama, I have never told the name of that regiment, lest I should find his surmise correct.] "I know you must have observed the indifference that they manifested when you were talking. It is more than probable that some of them will betray you today before you get out. You stay with us and late this evening, I will see if I can't get you out through another gate. It is hardly probable that they would know where my quarters are, as I am a perfect stranger to them. It was only an accident that I was present when you came in."

THIS IS THE FIRST LESSON I HAD IN "SHUT-MOUTH"

and it has served me all my days. You may be sure I did not need a second invitation to remain with them. Numbers of the boys talked with me, and we had a pleasant day. Late in the afternoon, my friend conducted me in sight of another gate. I divided my money with him and left.

Going back to the hotel, I satisfied myself about the way the Illinois Central R. R. ran out from the city, because that was the route I expected to take. It didn't make any difference then with me about lower or upper berths. The next morning, Sunday, the 9th of March, with my shawl wrapped up in a hand-strap, and my overcoat and rubbers on,

I STARTED OUT AFOOT DOWN THE RAILROAD.

Fifteen miles below was the town of Calumet, now a part of the city; I reached there about the middle of the afternoon, and went into the eating house by the railroad. There was a large number of men gathered around the stove, talking about the war. About six o'clock they broke up and went to their homes for supper, and I was left alone with the proprietor, who was also the railroad agent.

I had made it up with my friends at Camp Douglass, if I should be captured I would claim my name was Hardy, one of their comrades, who had been left somewhere, and they would recognize me as Hardy. In that way, later on, I would be exchanged and get through. It was a poor put up story, but that was the understanding, so I did not expect to be Crumpton any more.

The proprietor said: "You seem to be traveling." I said "yes." "Afoot?" "Yes." "Where are you from?" "Beloit, Wisconsin." "What is your name?" I said "Crumpton." Immediately he took my breath by saying: "You are lately from California, aren't you?"

FORTY FROGS SEEMED TO JUMP INTO MY THROAT.

I choked them down the best I could and finally said: "Yes, sir but how did you know it?" He said: "Do you know Safford in California?" I said "yes, one of the best friends I ever had." "Well," he replied, "Safford and I were reared down in Cairo. It has been years since I was there, but last Christmas I went to visit the old scenes and, among others, called on his brother. He showed me a letter from the California brother, in which he said a young man by the name of Crumpton had gone to Beloit, Wis., and he had sent some Japanese and Chinese curiosities by him." I said, "yes, I am the boy. I sent the curios by express a month ago, and I expect to see the Saffords on this trip." I did not deserve anything for telling the truth; my intention was to tell a lie. Suppose I had said my name was Hardy. The next question would have been: "Do you know a young fellow by the name of Crumpton, lately from California?" Then I would have been into it.

Resuming the conversation, he said: "How is it that you are afoot?" My reply was: "My brother promised to send me money and when he did not do it, I became impatient and determined to go without it." "Where are you going?" I said: "To Vienna." It was a place I had picked out on the map, about twenty miles East of Anna Station. I guess it was a very insignificant place. Anna Station was the Camp of Instruction for the Federal Army, about twenty miles North of Cairo. I had chosen that as my point of destination, as no one would suspect me if I should be going where the Federal soldiers were. My friend said: "Young man, you are surely not acquainted with the prairie and the winter weather. It is pleasant for this time of the year, but in a few days snow storms and blizzards will be the order and any man, taking the trip you propose afoot, would freeze to death. It is out of the question for you to think of such a thing, it is near three hundred miles." I said: "Well, I will go until the storm breaks out."

He said, "you remain with me tonight. It shan't cost you anything, and in the morning I will see if I can't get you a ticket to Anna Station." I said: "I like to settle things in my mind; think I can sleep better. I have a little pistol here which was given me by a friend. It is hardly of any value to anybody except me, but if you will take it in pawn, for two weeks, for a ticket to Anna Station, I will take the ticket; otherwise I will pursue my journey afoot." He finally agreed to do as I proposed and I turned over the pistol to him. It was the only pistol I ever possessed. Really it was a relief to get rid of it, for I had been uneasy every minute I had it in my pocket.

The next morning I

TOOK THE TRAIN, WHICH WAS LOADED DOWN WITH FEDERAL SOLDIERS,

going to Anna Station. They were nearly all young men, in blue uniforms and had large, well filled knapsacks. I don't think I spoke a word to anybody that day. If anybody asked me a question, I answered only in monosyllables. I saw those boys take new Bibles out of their knapsacks and begin to read them. Nearly every one of them had a Bible. I did not understand it until, a few weeks later, when my own sister presented me with a Bible, as I started to the army, with the injunction that I should read it.

A little before day I reached Anna Station;

AT DAYLIGHT I STARTED WEST TO THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER,

instead of East to Vienna. Taking dinner with a farmer, who was evidently in sympathy with the Southern people, he said: "How are you going to get across the river?" I said: "Is there no ferry there?" "No, there is a place where the ferry was, but all the boats from St. Louis to Cairo have been destroyed by the Federals, except one belonging to a fisherman, four miles above the old ferry; but he is a Union man and would see you dead before he would put you over." About the middle of the afternoon I reached the abandoned ferry. I suppose the Mississippi River was lower than it had ever been at that time of the year, and probably ever has been since. Large sand bars extended out into the river and the stream was very narrow where it swept around the bar. I went up to the head of the sand bar and found driftwood of every imaginable kind. I picked out some timbers and expected to come back and attempt to make a raft on which I might pole or paddle myself across, if I should fail in getting across in the fisherman's boat. As I approached the house of the fisherman, I saw on the other side of the river, in the village a very large number of men. Evidently they were having a lot of sport; I guessed they had much liquor aboard. I got the woman to call her husband over. I saw him and a companion coming down the river bank on the other side. I discovered at once that they were intoxicated. As they came up, the owner of the boat said: "Who are you?" "I am a young fellow from Beloit, Wis., going to Greenville, Mo." "Well, how do you know you are going?" I said: "I don't know it. I suppose it depends on you, but I am very anxious to get across." He said: "Well, old fellow, are you loyal?" "I am sworn not to put anybody across here except loyal men, and I would get into a world of trouble if I should put a rebel across." I said: "How can a man be otherwise than loyal when he comes from Beloit, Wis.? I was in Chicago just day before yesterday and I expect, just as soon as I get back home, to join the army." So after a good deal of parley, he said: "Well, it will take one dollar in advance," which I readily paid, that left me one dollar in my pocket. I was anxious to make a good impression on him as to my loyalty, so I said, as we were crossing: "Is there any danger of my falling into the hands of the rebels on the other side of the river?" He said: "I should say, and if they run up on you they will kill you sure." I said: "That would be awful. I think maybe I can walk two miles before night; tell me the name of some loyal man out a little piece, where I could stay all night and be safe." He said: "All right I'll just take you up to the man and introduce you, he will take care of you." I saw at once I had spoken one word too many. I didn't want to be introduced to anybody by that man, especially not to a loyal man. How was I going to get out of it was the question.

Just as the boat landed there came a number of men down the bank, cursing and swearing at these fellows. Evidently they had formed a conspiracy to whip them when they got back. They commenced fighting and rolled into the edge of the river before I left. When I got to the top of the bank, I saw all the people of the town coming my way, evidently, bent on seeing the fight. I did not care to meet them, so I took a path running right down by the river bank and walked off just as if I lived down that way. I have no idea that there was a man in the crowd that could have remembered seeing me, if he had been sworn; they were so intent on seeing that fight they had no eyes for anything else.

[Chapter Five]

Gets his pistol back; Road full of Yankees; Goes forty miles one day; Such a man as I have never seen; Not a prayer meeting man; Reaches old Uncle McCullough's; Like one in a dream; You people who don't believe in prayer; Mind made up not to remain.

I STAYED that night with a man who lived on the bank of the river, and found out that he had been with Jeff Thompson, the Confederate Cavalry General, but had been caught and made to take the oath of allegience. Such men, I afterwards discovered, were called "galvanized" men. Before I left the house next morning I was treated to the sight of a steamboat, loaded with Federal soldiers, going down the river. They were cheered lustily by the negroes, but the white man and I observed them in silence. Of course, I told him nothing about my intentions, except that I was going to Greenville, Mo. Thinking it possible that it might be difficult to get a letter back to my friends later on, I wanted to find a suitable place to write. This I discovered by questioning an old negro. He said he belonged to "Marse John Oliver. Young Marse John was with Jeff Thompson and Miss Mary was at home." I concluded I could confide in the mother after that information, so I approached the house and introduced myself to the lady, telling her that I was going South and wanted to write some letters back to my friends. She kindly showed me to a back room and gave me stationery. I wrote to my friends in Wisconsin, begging their pardon for deceiving them, and asking them to redeem my pistol, so that the man at Calumet might not lose anything. This they did and

THREE YEARS AFTER THEY SENT THE PISTOL TO ME,

and I have it now as a souvenir of those days.

The lady said: "I would be very glad for you to spend the afternoon and night with us, so that my husband might see you; but it would be dangerous for you and for us. The Home Guards are roaming through the country all the time, and if you should be found here, they might have my husband arrested and carried off to prison, on the charge of harboring a rebel, or they might burn our property down. There is no telling what they would do. I am very uneasy for you, lest they shall meet you and kill you." These Home Guards, as I afterwards found out, were irresponsible soldiers, most of them Germans, who were but little more than marauders, and I afterwards found that we had some of the same sort among the Confederates. I had but little apprehension of trouble, as I was to go to places where there were Federal garrisons. I went through the first town late in the afternoon with a "galvanized" man whom I happened to meet just before reaching the village. I saw the soldiers all around on the streets, drinking and carousing. A little further along, I spent the night in a home where an old gentleman and his family were living, taking care of the plantation and slaves belonging to a young man who was with Jeff Thompson. Of course they told me very much about the war, but I said nothing to them further than that I was going to Greenville. The next morning when I came down stairs, I found the girls on the back veranda. Being of a confiding disposition, especially with pretty girls, I told them in a few words that I was going South to the Confederate Army. Just then breakfast was announced. I sat down to the table with my back towards the front door, and the girls sat on the opposite side of the table, in full view of the front door and the public road. As I was chatting with them, casting sheep's eyes the while, I noticed one of them suddenly change color, as she gazed intently towards the front door, and she remarked:

"THE ROAD IS FULL OF YANKEES."