The spy and the saboteurs: Men who instigated the 'Great Locomotive Chase' stayed here the night before daring raid

The Andrews room is on the second floor of the former hotel.

It might be a bit of a stretch to liken the Civil War’s Andrews Raid – popularly known as “The Great Locomotive Chase” – to the daring Doolittle Raid in World War II, but perhaps there are a few similarities.

In 1862, Union spy James J. Andrews and a handful of Ohio soldiers struck deep in Southern territory. Their aim was to disrupt Confederate rail service between Atlanta and Chattanooga, Tenn., making the latter vulnerable to capture. The mission failed. Eight men – including Andrews – were hanged as spies, Chattanooga was not attacked in force and the Western & Atlantic Railroad quickly rebounded from a smattering of damage.

The saboteurs, however, became heroes in the North and the very first Medal of Honor went to one, Jacob Parrott. Eventually, 19 of the raiders received the honor (Andrews, a civilian, did not qualify).

The Doolittle Raid also occurred in April, albeit 80 years later. The air raid over Tokyo and other cities on Honshu caused minimal damage, but demonstrated the Japanese mainland was vulnerable to attack and boosted morale in the United States.

Propaganda is a powerful thing, and the Confederacy likewise treated those who ran down the Andrews raiders as heroes.

Models of the General (left) and Texas

The nervous night before raid

On Saturday, I made my way to Marietta, Ga., where Andrews and 19 others boarded the locomotive General to begin their caper. The town, just northwest of Atlanta, is rich in Civil War history: It has a national and Confederate cemetery, a “Gone with the Wind” museum and is near Kennesaw Mountain, scene of a significant battle in June 1864 during Sherman’s Atlanta Campaign.

I walked through the charming downtown square in a city older than Atlanta and Chattanooga. I passed restaurants, boutiques and antique shops on a hot summer day made bearable by a breeze. My destination was the Kennesaw House, one of the oldest buildings in the city, and home to the Marietta Museum of History.

Route of the chase, which ended near Ringgold.

The second-floor of the building features contemporary exhibits and a room that I specifically wanted to see. In April 1862, the former cotton warehouse was known as Fletcher House. The hotel, perched along the railroad tracks, was owned by Dix Fletcher, a Union sympathizer. The swankier Marietta Hotel on the square was operated by Yankee spy Henry G. Cole.

Fletcher House is where most of the raiders spent the night before they boarded the train.

Andrews (who hoped to be paid for his efforts) was familiar with Marietta but it took a lot of moxie for his men, dressed as civilians and posing as Confederate army recruits, to travel south from Shelbyville, Tenn., to Marietta in order to board the locomotive General. They passed Confederates who surely wondered whether they were conscripts avoiding service. Two would-be raiders were stopped in North Georgia and impressed into the Confederate army.

James Andrews

The raiders arrived in the city late on April 11 and all but two crammed into a room or two in the Fletcher House. Two more stayed at the Marietta Hotel, but they overslept and did not take part in the raid.

The building housing the museum has undergone several renovations since the Civil War and the re-created hotel room where Andrews is believed to have stayed is much larger than it was then and includes exhibits on the train chase. There’s a replica of a bed that likely held two or three tired men, furnishings and a mannequin of a determined Andrews looking down at the W&A tracks (the line is now used by CSX).

The raiders didn’t get much sleep on a night filled with anxiety and expectation. According to William Pittenger, one of the soldiers, some participants called for Andrews to call off the operation.

“I will succeed or leave my bones in Dixie,” the spy replied.

Startled conductor springs into action

Early the morning of the 12th, a gray, rainy day, the men bought tickets to different destinations in order to avoid suspicion. They boarded the General and road eight miles north to Big Shanty, now known as Kennesaw.

Andrews mannequin in Marietta

The raiders stayed on the train while others went to the Lacy Hotel to enjoy a quick breakfast. They uncoupled most of the cars and sped off. Their objective was to disrupt the vital rail line that transported Rebel soldiers and supplies from Atlanta to Chattanooga, where they were then sent to other critical locations in the Western Theater. The men intended to destroy track, trestles, bridges and telegraph lines.

Western & Atlantic conductor William A. Fuller was shocked at the sight of his train chugging away. He and a couple others ran after the train, unaware of the subterfuge. 

The conductor ran across a handcar and three trains and 86 miles later he -- along with Confederate horsemen who had been reached by telegraph -- had chased Andrews to a few miles south of Chattanooga, Tenn. Out of fuel and water for the locomotive, Andrews and his party fled, only to be captured.

A lot of things worked against the saboteurs – the wet weather made it tough to set fire to wood and the tenacious Fuller just wouldn’t give up. The dogged pursuit left them little opportunity to cause mayhem. And there was a crucial delay that slowed the General.

The raiders had to wait for almost an hour at Kingston while several southbound freight trains cleared the tracks. Confederates switched to the locomotive Texas in Adairsville and ran it in reverse. 

Board describes the fate of each Union raider

Aware they were being chased, the Yankees cut telegraph lines when they went through Calhoun. In Resaca, they detached a rail car and set it on fire on the rail bridge in hopes of burning it down. The bridge was not burned completely because of a rainstorm.

The gig was up near Ringgold as the General ran out of steam. Eight of the 20 captured raiders were tried as spies and executed in Atlanta. The rest either escaped or were exchanged, according to the New Georgia Encyclopedia.

Hotel largely escaped the flames

That wasn’t the end of the Civil War story for Fletcher House. It and other buildings in Marietta served as hospitals for both Federal and Confederate soldiers. A morgue was upstairs.

Surviving fireplaces

“During the summer of 1864, forces under the command of William Tecumseh Sherman moved in and occupied the town,” the Marietta city website says.

“For the next five months, federal troops would pillage by day and ravage by night. In November 1864, men under the command of Union General Hugh Kilpatrick, Sherman's ‘merchant of terror,’ set the town on fire. ‘Uncle Billy's’ boys were leaving for the heart of Georgia on ‘The March to the Sea.”

The story goes that Fletcher House was spared because Fletcher, like Sherman, was a Mason, and Cole, his son-in-law, was a Yankee spy. Ashes from the fire did destroy the building’s fourth floor.

The hotel after the war was renamed Kennesaw House and stayed in operations for several more decades, giving way to retail space on the first floor. The building was gutted in 1979, and the remodeled space hosted restaurants, offices and retail. It’s been home to the Marietta Museum of History since 1996.

Next door is the town’s welcome center, housed in a depot (1898) built on the site of the original station.

And what became of the General and Texas, the locomotives made famous by the seven-hour chase?

The General is on display at the Southern Museum of Civil War and Locomotive History in Kennesaw. The Texas was recently restored and will be a highlight of the Atlanta Cyclorama when it reopens later this year at the Atlanta History Center.

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The USS Monitor overcame doubters. Its crew trusted the ironclad, even during the terrible storm that sank the famous ironclad.

Monitor crew in July 1862 on James River in Va.  (Library of Congress)

Robert Williams (right)

On a summer day in 1862, a contingent of the USS Monitor’s crew gathered in front of its battle-scarred turret. A few sailors played checkers while others gazed toward a camera.

None of them looked more intensely at the photographer than Robert Williams, a fireman first class from Wales. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing his brawny, crossed forearms.

“There is a cockiness,” said David Alberg, superintendent of the Monitor National Marine Sanctuary, which protects the remnants of the Monitor. “That is the look of the hero.”

But that air of confidence couldn’t have been predicted just a few months before.

On March 6, 1862, the new Union ironclad – its radical design dubbed “Ericsson’s folly” by its doubters -- steamed down New York City’s East River for the short journey to Virginia. There were doubts about whether the Monitor could withstand the seas and intense enemy firepower; it fired only two cannons from the revolving turret.

“People thought these 70 men were going to their deaths,” Alberg told the Picket. “The crew was unconvinced. Many were seasick.”

But the small ship quickly challenged the heavily armored CSS Virginia upon arrival and ended the latter’s rampage against Federal ships. The stalemate at Hampton Road changed naval warfare and foreshadowed the end of wooden warships.

Harper's Weekly rendering of Monitor sinking (public domain)

While much of the USS Monitor’s wreckage remains where it sank during a storm off Cape Hatteras, N.C, on Dec. 31, 1862, the turret, guns, anchor, engine components and thousands of artifacts are housed at the Mariners’ Museum and Park in Newport News, Va.

An exhibit that opened last year features personal items – including shoes, a comb, buttons and pocket knives -- found near or with the remains of two sailors found in the turret when it was recovered in 2002. Sixteen men, including four officers, perished when the Monitor went down.

Despite advanced forensics testing and physical descriptions of sailors noted during their Civil War service, the identities of the two crew members remain unknown.

Sailor 1 is believed to be William H. Eagan, 21, or Jacob Nicklis (Nickles), 21. Sailor 2 is likely either William Bryan, 31, or Williams, 30, who worked in the engine room. A spoon on display has the initials “J.N.” and is believed to have belonged to Nicklis. In the top photo in this post, Bryan may be the kneeling man to Williams' right.

Judging from contemporary accounts and what was found in the turret (discarded footwear, silverware and clothing), there was a mad rush to escape through the turret when it became clear the Monitor was going to sink.

David Alberg

Lifeboats from the steamer USS Rhode Island, which was towing the ironclad to Beaufort, N.C., plowed through 30-foot waves to scoop up survivors in midnight maelstrom. Some onboard likely couldn’t swim, while others’ best chance was leaping from the deck into a rescue boat.

It’s unclear why the two men found in the turret remained on board. “They probably said, ‘Maybe the storm will lie down and they will send another boat back,’” said Alberg.

In the minds of the crew, he said, the ironclad had gone from an “iron coffin” on March 6 to an icon in December. “And it had served them well.” Amid the storm, their confidence “kept them on that boat.” 

USS Monitor was 'a strange ship'

Like much of the US Navy, the Monitor’s crew was a cross-section of 19^th century America. A few, including Williams and Eagan, were born in Europe. Three African-Americans were lost with the vessel off Hatteras.

The crew lived below the waterline, and oil lamps burned to make up for the lack of natural light in the iron vessel. Officers had better food and quarters while the enlisted men slept on hammocks in a common room behind the wardroom.

The USS Monitor is a “strange ship” for those accustomed to canal boats and traditional wooden vessels, said John Quarstein, director emeritus of the USS Monitor Center at the museum. For example, it had pressurized commodes. “Half of those people had never seen a commode.”

As one can imagine, life on the boat was almost unbearable during the summer months. A photo taken after the CSS Virginia clash shows a shade awning above the turret.

The crew did a fair bit of drilling, said Quarstein, and their work was subject to weekly inspections.

Panels in crew exhibit at Mariners' Museum (Picket photos)

Not a lot is known about Bryan and Eagan.

Bryan, like Williams, served on the ironclad during the battle with the Virginia. The New York native was an experienced yeoman.

Nicklis and Eagan, a relatively inexperienced landsman born in Ireland, were replacements brought on at the Washington Navy Yard while the boat was undergoing repairs in the autumn of 1862. By then, crowds cheered the Monitor and its occupants.

A good bit is known about Nicklis because of surviving letters in the museum’s collection, written to his father from Oct. 27, 1862, to Dec. 28, 1862. The young seaman from Buffalo, New York, stood 5 feet 7 inches and had a ruddy complexion.

Nicklis had enlisted in the Navy at age 16, but re-enlisted in 1862 for a one-year term.

Officers on the deck in July 1862 (Library of Congress)

Throughout his letters, Nicklis expresses his misgiving on serving on board the Monitor. He states that the turret is “getting weak” and that “they say we will have a pretty rough time a going around Hatteras but I hope it will not be the case.” 

The USS Monitor returned to Hampton Roads in November after it was repaired, and then it was ordered on Christmas Eve to steam to Beaufort.

Terrifying storm put it under

The pride of the US Navy left on Dec. 29, 1862. Two days later, it encountered a strong storm that had it floundering in the Atlantic waves. Not built to withstand the forces of the open seas, the ironclad bounced up and down, resulting in loosened bolts that allowed water to come in.

Landsman Francis Butts, standing atop the structure, later wrote that the waves “would leap upon us and break far above the turret” with “a shock that would sometimes take us off our feet.”

Commander John Bankhead ordered a red lantern (right) be hoisted to signal distress to the Rhode Island. The line between the two vessels was cut to minimize the chance of them colliding. The flooding continued during the rescues by leaky and overloaded lifeboats. Eventually, Bankhead ordered the crew to abandon ship.

Quarstein, author of “The Monitor Boys,” called the rescue of 47 USS Monitor crew members “a tremendous story of heroism” by the crew of the Rhode Island’s commander, Stephen Decatur Trenchard.

There was no requirement at the time of being a proficient swimmer, and most of the men knew if they fell into the water they were lost. A few slipped off the deck to their deaths, while others missed lifeboats.

“The people who are left in the turret when the second boat goes back, they are called to get into the boat by Bankhead. They are either too afraid or they think the boat is so overloaded.”

Rhode Island Acting Master’s Mate D. Rodney Browne and members of his crew rowed back for them (at least one member of the USS Monitor crew was below deck). The USS Monitor was gone.

Quarstein estimates about half of the 16 who died drowned, while the remaining went down when the USS Monitor capsized, turned over and hit the bottom.

Clash of the CSS Virginia and Monitor (Library of Congress)

Deep affection for Monitor's service

The USS Monitor retains its special place in US naval history. While it never engaged with the CSS Virginia again (the latter was destroyed to avoid capture after it was bottled up by the Monitor), the boat took part in the Battle of Drewry’s Bluff, firing on a Confederate fort on Virginia’s James River.

But it’s best remembered for its heroics on March 9, 1862, a day after the Virginia sank the USS Cumberland and pulverized the USS Congress, which was set afire after capture.

The Monitor’s skipper at the time, Lt. John Worden, was ordered to protect the steam frigate USS Minnesota. The Virginia plowed toward the Minnesota but the Monitor interceded and the two circled for hours, firing broadsides and looking for weakness in the other’s armor. Both sides claimed victory.

The Minnesota was saved outright by the Monitor. According to the USS Monitor Center, “One Minnesota crew member had his tombstone designed to look like the Monitor -- the ship that saved his life.”

Fast forward to March 2013, when the remains of the two unidentified men found in the turret were buried with full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery. (The bodies of the other 14 have not been recovered)

Reverse of coin has image of old USS Minnesota (NOAA)

Alberg, the superintendent of the Monitor marine sanctuary, told the Picket he has vivid memories of the day. About 140 descendants of the crew were on hand. “Some were of men who clearly survived. I have a photo of a lady laying her hands on the casket. I was very moved at how all 140 people viewed them as theirs.”

Front of coin (NOAA)

He keeps a coin given to him that day by the commanding officer of the new advanced nuclear submarine USS Minnesota. The reverse side includes an image of the Civil War-era USS Minnesota.

The gift was a token of appreciation – 151 years later – for the Monitor’s saving of the Minnesota.

“That short 10-second exchange will stick with me forever,” said Alberg. “It really showed … the power of the Monitor story."

• Part 1: These two sailors went down with the USS Monitor. Now you can see items they carried or were found near them.

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