Henry Thomas Harrison, spy for Confederate Lt. Gen. James Longstreet
I
Captain Parrol Hartroy stood at the advanced post of his picket-guard,talking in low tones with the sentinel. This post was on a turnpikewhich bisected the captain's camp, a half-mile in rear, though the campwas not in sight from that point. The officer was apparently giving thesoldier certain instructions--was perhaps merely inquiring if all werequiet in front. As the two stood talking a man approached them from thedirection of the camp, carelessly whistling, and was promptly halted bythe soldier. He was evidently a civilian--a tall person, coarsely cladin the home-made stuff of yellow gray, called "butternut," which wasmen's only wear in the latter days of the Confederacy. On his head was aslouch felt hat, once white, from beneath which hung masses of unevenhair, seemingly unacquainted with either scissors or comb. The man'sface was rather striking; a broad forehead, high nose, and thin cheeks,the mouth invisible in the full dark beard, which seemed as neglected asthe hair. The eyes were large and had that steadiness and fixity ofattention which so frequently mark a considering intelligence and a willnot easily turned from its purpose--so say those physiognomists who havethat kind of eyes. On the whole, this was a man whom one would be likelyto observe and be observed by. He carried a walking-stick freshly cutfrom the forest and his ailing cowskin boots were white with dust.
"Show your pass," said the Federal soldier, a trifle more imperiouslyperhaps than he would have thought necessary if he had not been underthe eye of his commander, who with folded arms looked on from theroadside.
"'Lowed you'd rec'lect me, Gineral," said the wayfarer tranquilly, whileproducing the paper from the pocket of his coat. There was something inhis tone--perhaps a faint suggestion of irony--which made his elevationof his obstructor to exalted rank less agreeable to that worthy warriorthan promotion is commonly found to be. "You-all have to be purtypertickler, I reckon," he added, in a more conciliatory tone, as if inhalf-apology for being halted.
Having read the pass, with his rifle resting on the ground, the soldierhanded the document back without a word, shouldered his weapon, andreturned to his commander. The civilian passed on in the middle of theroad, and when he had penetrated the circumjacent Confederacy a fewyards resumed his whistling and was soon out of sight beyond an angle inthe road, which at that point entered a thin forest. Suddenly theofficer undid his arms from his breast, drew a revolver from his beltand sprang forward at a run in the same direction, leaving his sentinelin gaping astonishment at his post. After making to the various visibleforms of nature a solemn promise to be damned, that gentleman resumedthe air of stolidity which is supposed to be appropriate to a state ofalert military attention.
II
Captain Hartroy held an independent command. His force consisted of acompany of infantry, a squadron of cavalry, and a section of artillery,detached from the army to which they belonged, to defend an importantdefile in the Cumberland Mountains in Tennessee. It was a fieldofficer's command held by a line officer promoted from the ranks, wherehe had quietly served until "discovered." His post was one ofexceptional peril; its defense entailed a heavy responsibility and hehad wisely been given corresponding discretionary powers, all the morenecessary because of his distance from the main army, the precariousnature of his communications and the lawless character of the enemy'sirregular troops infesting that region. He had strongly fortified hislittle camp, which embraced a village of a half-dozen dwellings and acountry store, and had collected a considerable quantity of supplies. Toa few resident civilians of known loyalty, with whom it was desirable totrade, and of whose services in various ways he sometimes availedhimself, he had given written passes admitting them within his lines. Itis easy to understand that an abuse of this privilege in the interest ofthe enemy might entail serious consequences. Captain Hartroy had made anorder to the effect that any one so abusing it would be summarily shot.
While the sentinel had been examining the civilian's pass the captainhad eyed the latter narrowly. He thought his appearance familiar and hadat first no doubt of having given him the pass which had satisfied thesentinel. It was not until the man had got out of sight and hearing thathis identity was disclosed by a revealing light from memory. Withsoldierly promptness of decision the officer had acted on therevelation.
III
To any but a singularly self-possessed man the apparition of an officerof the military forces, formidably clad, bearing in one hand a sheathedsword and in the other a cocked revolver, and rushing in furiouspursuit, is no doubt disquieting to a high degree; upon the man to whomthe pursuit was in this instance directed it appeared to have no othereffect than somewhat to intensify his tranquillity. He might easilyenough have escaped into the forest to the right or the left, but choseanother course of action--turned and quietly faced the captain, sayingas he came up: "I reckon ye must have something to say to me, which yedisremembered. What mout it be, neighbor?"
But the "neighbor" did not answer, being engaged in the unneighborly actof covering him with a cocked pistol.
"Surrender," said the captain as calmly as a slight breathlessness fromexertion would permit, "or you die."
There was no menace in the manner of this demand; that was all in thematter and in the means of enforcing it. There was, too, something notaltogether reassuring in the cold gray eyes that glanced along thebarrel of the weapon. For a moment the two men stood looking at eachother in silence; then the civilian, with no appearance of fear--with asgreat apparent unconcern as when complying with the less austere demandof the sentinel--slowly pulled from his pocket the paper which hadsatisfied that humble functionary and held it out, saying:
"I reckon this 'ere parss from Mister Hartroy is--"
"The pass is a forgery," the officer said, interrupting. "I am CaptainHartroy--and you are Dramer Brune."
It would have required a sharp eye to observe the slight pallor of thecivilian's face at these words, and the only other manifestationattesting their significance was a voluntary relaxation of the thumb andfingers holding the dishonored paper, which, falling to the road,unheeded, was rolled by a gentle wind and then lay still, with a coatingof dust, as in humiliation for the lie that it bore. A moment later thecivilian, still looking unmoved into the barrel of the pistol, said:
"Yes, I am Dramer Brune, a Confederate spy, and your prisoner. I have onmy person, as you will soon discover, a plan of your fort and itsarmament, a statement of the distribution of your men and their number,a map of the approaches, showing the positions of all your outposts. Mylife is fairly yours, but if you wish it taken in a more formal way thanby your own hand, and if you are willing to spare me the indignity ofmarching into camp at the muzzle of your pistol, I promise you that Iwill neither resist, escape, nor remonstrate, but will submit towhatever penalty may be imposed."
The officer lowered his pistol, uncocked it, and thrust it into itsplace in his belt. Brune advanced a step, extending his right hand.
"It is the hand of a traitor and a spy," said the officer coldly, anddid not take it. The other bowed.
"Come," said the captain, "let us go to camp; you shall not die untilto-morrow morning."
He turned his back upon his prisoner, and these two enigmatical menretraced their steps and soon passed the sentinel, who expressed hisgeneral sense of things by a needless and exaggerated salute to hiscommander.
IV
Early on the morning after these events the two men, captor and captive,sat in the tent of the former. A table was between them on which lay,among a number of letters, official and private, which the captain hadwritten during the night, the incriminating papers found upon the spy.That gentleman had slept through the night in an adjoining tent,unguarded. Both, having breakfasted, were now smoking.
"Mr. Brune," said Captain Hartroy, "you probably do not understand why Irecognized you in your disguise, nor how I was aware of your name."
"I have not sought to learn, Captain," the prisoner said with quietdignity.
"Nevertheless I should like you to know--if the story will not offend.You will perceive that my knowledge of you goes back to the autumn of1861. At that time you were a private in an Ohio regiment--a brave andtrusted soldier. To the surprise and grief of your officers and comradesyou deserted and went over to the enemy. Soon afterward you werecaptured in a skirmish, recognized, tried by court-martial and sentencedto be shot. Awaiting the execution of the sentence you were confined,unfettered, in a freight car standing on a side track of a railway."
"At Grafton, Virginia," said Brune, pushing the ashes from his cigarwith the little finger of the hand holding it, and without looking up.
"At Grafton, Virginia," the captain repeated. "One dark and stormy nighta soldier who had just returned from a long, fatiguing march was put onguard over you. He sat on a cracker box inside the car, near the door,his rifle loaded and the bayonet fixed. You sat in a corner and hisorders were to kill you if you attempted to rise."
"But if I asked to rise he might call the corporal of the guard."
"Yes. As the long silent hours wore away the soldier yielded to thedemands of nature: he himself incurred the death penalty by sleeping athis post of duty."
"You did."
"What! you recognize me? you have known me all along?"
The captain had risen and was walking the floor of his tent, visiblyexcited. His face was flushed, the gray eyes had lost the cold, pitilesslook which they had shown when Brune had seen them over the pistolbarrel; they had softened wonderfully.
"I knew you," said the spy, with his customary tranquillity, "the momentyou faced me, demanding my surrender. In the circumstances it would havebeen hardly becoming in me to recall these matters. I am perhaps atraitor, certainly a spy; but I should not wish to seem a suppliant."
The captain had paused in his walk and was facing his prisoner. Therewas a singular huskiness in his voice as he spoke again.
"Mr. Brune, whatever your conscience may permit you to be, you saved mylife at what you must have believed the cost of your own. Until I sawyou yesterday when halted by my sentinel I believed you dead--thoughtthat you had suffered the fate which through my own crime you mighteasily have escaped. You had only to step from the car and leave me totake your place before the firing-squad. You had a divine compassion.You pitied my fatigue. You let me sleep, watched over me, and as thetime drew near for the relief-guard to come and detect me in my crime,you gently waked me. Ah, Brune, Brune, that was well done--that wasgreat--that--"
The captain's voice failed him; the tears were running down his face andsparkled upon his beard and his breast. Resuming his seat at the table,he buried his face in his arms and sobbed. All else was silence.
Suddenly the clear warble of a bugle was heard sounding the "assembly."The captain started and raised his wet face from his arms; it had turnedghastly pale. Outside, in the sunlight, were heard the stir of the menfalling into line; the voices of the sergeants calling the roll; thetapping of the drummers as they braced their drums. The captain spokeagain:
"I ought to have confessed my fault in order to relate the story of yourmagnanimity; it might have procured you a pardon. A hundred times Iresolved to do so, but shame prevented. Besides, your sentence was justand righteous. Well, Heaven forgive me! I said nothing, and my regimentwas soon afterward ordered to Tennessee and I never heard about you."
"It was all right, sir," said Brune, without visible emotion; "I escapedand returned to my colors--the Confederate colors. I should like to addthat before deserting from the Federal service I had earnestly asked adischarge, on the ground of altered convictions. I was answered bypunishment."
"Ah, but if I had suffered the penalty of my crime--if you had notgenerously given me the life that I accepted without gratitude you wouldnot be again in the shadow and imminence of death."
The prisoner started slightly and a look of anxiety came into his face.One would have said, too, that he was surprised. At that moment alieutenant, the adjutant, appeared at the opening of the tent andsaluted. "Captain," he said, "the battalion is formed."
Captain Hartroy had recovered his composure. He turned to the officerand said: "Lieutenant, go to Captain Graham and say that I direct him toassume command of the battalion and parade it outside the parapet. Thisgentleman is a deserter and a spy; he is to be shot to death in thepresence of the troops. He will accompany you, unbound and unguarded."
While the adjutant waited at the door the two men inside the tent roseand exchanged ceremonious bows, Brune immediately retiring.
Half an hour later an old negro cook, the only person left in campexcept the commander, was so startled by the sound of a volley ofmusketry that he dropped the kettle that he was lifting from a fire. Butfor his consternation and the hissing which the contents of the kettlemade among the embers, he might also have heard, nearer at hand, thesingle pistol shot with which Captain Hartroy renounced the life whichin conscience he could no longer keep.
In compliance with the terms of a note that he left for the officer whosucceeded him in command, he was buried, like the deserter and spy,without military honors; and in the solemn shadow of the mountain whichknows no more of war the two sleep well in long-forgotten graves.
This story is featured in our collection of Civil War Stories.
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