FOOTNOTES:

THE FIELD LINE AND STAFF OF OUR REGIMENT. TAKEN IN FRONT OF PETERSBURG, VA.—BEFORE THE FIGHT.

Quite a humorous and yet pathetic incident occurred during our rideback. We overtook a negro soldier very badly wounded in the arm, but marching proudly erect to City Point, still carrying his gun, cartridge-box, and haversack. Mr. Collis told him to throw these encumbrances away, but he refused, and then upon being ordered to do so, begged most earnestly to be permitted to retain them, because, as he expressed it, “I don’t want de fellows at de hospital to mistake me for a teamster.” We were soon home and in camp, and having eaten a hearty breakfast, Mr. Collis donned his only remaining suit of clothes and by direction of General Grant started for Richmond, which had been evacuated by Jefferson Davis and was then being entered by our troops. A little party of distinguished sight-seers had just come down from the North, little anticipating the exciting scenes in storefor them; they consisted of “Prince” John Van Buren and his charming daughter, Mrs. Stoughton and General and Colonel Stoughton, Mr. Arthur Leary, Mrs. Paran Stevens, Miss Reed, and some others whose names I regret to have forgotten. It did not take long to supply the entire party with horses, saddles, and side-saddles, and getting aboard a steamer in the harbor, we went as far up the river as the torpedoes would permit (I think the place was called Rockett’s), and then rode with our cavalry escort right into the city of Richmond, though the last mile was in a drenching rain, which wet us all to the skin. The capital of the Confederacy really did seem evacuated, and save for the fact that every now and then there was a slamming of a door or shutter with an unmistakable emphasis of the contempt in which we were held by the lady on the otherside, one would have supposed that the inhabitants had entirely abandoned it. Riding at a quick canter, we did not rein up until we reached the residence of Mr. Davis himself, where we found some of the colored servants still in possession, who received us with civility and helped us to dry our clothes. Having done this (to a certain extent), we rode around to the Capitol, the horrible and filthy Libby Prison, the burning district, and other places of interest and returned home in the evening, quite proud of the fact that we were the first Northern women to enter the beleaguered city.

AFTER THE BATTLE OF PETERSBURG, VA., APRIL, 1865.

While the people of the North were celebrating with guns and brass bands and bunting the capture of Petersburg and the evacuation of Richmond, while every loyal city was dressed in its holiday attire, and its inhabitants were intoxicated withjoy, the chain of events at City Point “all of which I saw, and part of which I was,” kept me still within the gloom and shadow of the war, while those removed from its actual presence were merry-making in the brilliance of the victory. City Point became one vast hospital for suffering humanity. As far as the eye could reach from the door-step of my humble home, the plain was dotted with tents which were rapidly filled with wounded men, Northern and Southern, white and black without distinction; army surgeons, and volunteer physicians just arrived, were kept sleeplessly at work; hospital nurses and the good Samaritans of the Sanitary Commission, laden with comforts for the sick and wounded, were passing to and fro, and amidst them all strode the tall gaunt figure of Abraham Lincoln, his moistened eyes even more eloquent than thelips, which had a kindly word of cheer for every sufferer. I had met Mr. Lincoln a few days before the crisis of which I am writing arrived, and was glad to know that he remembered me. My husband, who was present, asked himen passanthow long he intended to remain with the army; “Well,” said Mr. Lincoln, with as much caution as though he were being interviewed for publication, “I am like the western pioneer who built a log-cabin. When he commenced he didn’t know how much timber he would need, and when he had finished, he didn’t care how much he had used up”; and then added with a merry laugh: “So you see I came down among you without any definite plans, and when I go home I sha’n’t regret a moment I have spent with you.”

About this time a very touching incident occurred, which serves, aswell as any anecdote yet told, to illustrate that “charity for all and malice toward none” were not mere “words” with Abraham Lincoln, but that they were a part of his very nature and being.

It is a true story, told only once, in the initial number ofOnce a Week, and I will insert it here in my husband’s own language.

LINCOLN’S MAGNANIMITY.

BY CHAS. H. T. COLLIS.

During the few eventful days which immediately preceded the fall of Richmond, Abraham Lincoln tarried at City Point, Va., awaiting the news from Grant, Meade, and Sheridan, who were pulverizing Lee’s right wing, while Sherman was hurrying his victorious column toward Savannah. Time hung wearily with the President, and as he walked through the hospitals or rode amid the tents, his rueful countenance bore sadevidence of the anxiety and anguish which possessed him. Presently, however, squads, and then hundreds, and later thousands of prisoners, of high and low degree, came from the front, and we all began to realize, from what we saw of their condition, and what the prisoners themselves told us, that the Confederacy was crumbling to pieces.Among the captured were Generals Ewell, Custis Lee, and Barringer, who became the guests of myself and wife, I being at the time Commandant of the Post, and right well did they enjoy the only good square meal that had gladdened their eyes and their palates for many a long day.General Barringer, of North Carolina, was the first to arrive. He was a polished, scholarly, and urbane gentleman, scrupulously regarding the parole I had exacted from him, and deeply sensible and appreciative of my poor efforts to make him comfortable.Hearing that Mr. Lincoln was at City Point, the General one day begged meto give him an opportunity to see him as he walked or rode through the camp, and happening to spend that evening with the President in the tent of Colonel Bowers, Grant’s Adjutant-General, who had remained behind to keep up communication with the armies operating across the James River, I incidentally referred to the request of General Barringer. Mr. Lincoln immediately asked me to present his compliments to the General, and to say he would like very much to see him, whispering to me in his quaint and jocose way:“Do you know I have never seen a live rebel general in full uniform.”At once communicating the President’s wish to General Barringer, I found that officer much embarrassed. He feared I had overstepped the bounds of propriety in mentioning his curiosity to see the Northern President, and that Mr. Lincoln would think him a very impertinent fellow, besides which he was muddy, and tattered, and torn, and not at all presentable.Reassuring him as best I could, he at last sought those embellishments which a whisk, a blacking-brush, and a comb provided, and we walked over to head-quarters, where we found the President in high feather, listening to the cheerful messages from Grant at the front.I formally presented General Barringer, of North Carolina, to the President of the United States, and Mr. Lincoln extended his hand, warmly welcomed him, and bade him be seated. There was, however, only one chair vacant when the President arose, and this the Southerner very politely declined to take.This left the two men facing each other in the centre of the tent, the tall form of Mr. Lincoln almost reaching the ridge-pole. He slowly removed his eye-glasses, looked the General over from head to foot, and then in a slow, meditative, and puzzled manner inquired:“Barringer? Barringer? from North Carolina? Barringer of North Carolina? General, were you ever in Congress?”“No, Mr. Lincoln, I never was,” replied the General.“Well, I thought not; I thought my memory couldn’t be so much at fault. But therewasa Barringer in Congress with me, and from your State too!”“That was my brother, sir,” said Barringer.Up to this moment the hard face of the President had that thoughtful, troubled expression with which those of us who knew him were only too familiar, but now the lines melted away, and the eyes and the tongue both laughed. I cannot describe the change, though I still see it and shall never forget it. It was like a great sudden burst of sunshine in a rain storm.“Well! well!” exclaimed the great and good man, burying for the moment all thought of war, its cares, its asperities, and the frightful labor it had imposed upon him; his heart welling up only to the joyous reminiscence which the meeting brought to him.“Well! well!” said he; “do you knowthat that brother of yours was my chum in Congress. Yes, sir, we sat at the same desk and ate at the same table. He was a Whig and so was I. He was my chum, and I was very fond of him. And you are his brother, eh? Well! well! shake again.” And once more in the pressure of his great big hand his heart went out to this man in arms against the government, simply because his brother had been his chum and was a good fellow.A couple more chairs by this time had been added to the scant furniture of the Adjutant-General’s tent, and the conversation drifted from Mr. Lincoln’s anecdotes of the pleasant hours he and Barringer had spent together, to the war, thence to the merits of military and civil leaders, North and South, illustrated here and there by some appropriate story, entirely new, full of humor and sometimes of pathos.Several times the General made a movement to depart, fearing he was availing himself too lavishly of Mr.Lincoln’s affability, but each time was ordered to keep his seat, the President remarking that they were both prisoners, and he hoped the General would take some pity upon him and help him to talk about the times when they were both their own masters, and hadn’t everybody criticising and abusing them.Finally, however, General Barringer arose, and was bowing himself out, when Mr. Lincoln once more took him by the hand almost affectionately, placed another hand upon his shoulder, and inquired quite seriously:“Do you think I can be of any service to you?”Not until we had all finished a hearty laugh at this quaint remark did the President realize the innocent simplicity of his inquiry, and when General Barringer was able to reply that “If anybody can be of service to a poor devil in my situation, I presume you are the man,” Mr. Lincoln drew a blank card from his vest pocket, adjusted his glasses, turned up the wick of thelamp, and sat down at General Bowers’ desk with all the serious earnestness with which you would suppose he had attached his name to the emancipation proclamation.This was, however, all assumed. He was equipping himself and preparing us for one of his little jokes. While writing he kept up a running conversation with General Barringer (who was still standing and wondering) to this effect:“I suppose they will send you to Washington, and there I have no doubt they will put you in the old Capitol prison. I am told it isn’t a nice sort of a place, and I am afraid you won’t find it a very comfortable tavern; but I have a powerful friend in Washington—he’s the biggest man in the country,—and I believe I have some influence with him when I don’t ask too much. Now I want you to send this card of introduction to him, and if he takes the notion he may put you on your parole, or let up on you that way orsome other way. Anyhow, it’s worth while trying.”And then very deliberately drying the card with the blotter, he held it up to the light and read it to us in about the following words:“This is General Barringer, of the Southern army. He is the brother of a very dear friend of mine. Can you do any thing to make his detention in Washington as comfortable as possible under the circumstances?“A. Lincoln.“ToHon. Edwin M. Stanton,“Secretary of War.”Barringer never uttered a word. I think he made an effort to say “Thank you,” or “God bless you,” or something of that kind, but he was speechless. We both wheeled about and left the tent.After walking a few yards, not hearing any footsteps near me, and fearing Barringer had lost his way, I turned back and found this gallant leader of brave men, who had won his stars in ascore of battles, “like Niobe, all tears,” audibly sobbing and terribly overcome.He took my arm, and as we walked slowly home he gave voice to as hearty expressions of love for the great Lincoln as have been since uttered by his most devoted and life-long friends.A few years afterwards I met the General socially in Philadelphia, and we went over this episode in his life, as I have narrated it, and then, for the third time, his eyes filled as he told me how he had wept and wept at “the deep damnation of his taking off.”

Among the captured were Generals Ewell, Custis Lee, and Barringer, who became the guests of myself and wife, I being at the time Commandant of the Post, and right well did they enjoy the only good square meal that had gladdened their eyes and their palates for many a long day.

General Barringer, of North Carolina, was the first to arrive. He was a polished, scholarly, and urbane gentleman, scrupulously regarding the parole I had exacted from him, and deeply sensible and appreciative of my poor efforts to make him comfortable.

Hearing that Mr. Lincoln was at City Point, the General one day begged meto give him an opportunity to see him as he walked or rode through the camp, and happening to spend that evening with the President in the tent of Colonel Bowers, Grant’s Adjutant-General, who had remained behind to keep up communication with the armies operating across the James River, I incidentally referred to the request of General Barringer. Mr. Lincoln immediately asked me to present his compliments to the General, and to say he would like very much to see him, whispering to me in his quaint and jocose way:

“Do you know I have never seen a live rebel general in full uniform.”

At once communicating the President’s wish to General Barringer, I found that officer much embarrassed. He feared I had overstepped the bounds of propriety in mentioning his curiosity to see the Northern President, and that Mr. Lincoln would think him a very impertinent fellow, besides which he was muddy, and tattered, and torn, and not at all presentable.

Reassuring him as best I could, he at last sought those embellishments which a whisk, a blacking-brush, and a comb provided, and we walked over to head-quarters, where we found the President in high feather, listening to the cheerful messages from Grant at the front.

I formally presented General Barringer, of North Carolina, to the President of the United States, and Mr. Lincoln extended his hand, warmly welcomed him, and bade him be seated. There was, however, only one chair vacant when the President arose, and this the Southerner very politely declined to take.

This left the two men facing each other in the centre of the tent, the tall form of Mr. Lincoln almost reaching the ridge-pole. He slowly removed his eye-glasses, looked the General over from head to foot, and then in a slow, meditative, and puzzled manner inquired:

“Barringer? Barringer? from North Carolina? Barringer of North Carolina? General, were you ever in Congress?”

“No, Mr. Lincoln, I never was,” replied the General.

“Well, I thought not; I thought my memory couldn’t be so much at fault. But therewasa Barringer in Congress with me, and from your State too!”

“That was my brother, sir,” said Barringer.

Up to this moment the hard face of the President had that thoughtful, troubled expression with which those of us who knew him were only too familiar, but now the lines melted away, and the eyes and the tongue both laughed. I cannot describe the change, though I still see it and shall never forget it. It was like a great sudden burst of sunshine in a rain storm.

“Well! well!” exclaimed the great and good man, burying for the moment all thought of war, its cares, its asperities, and the frightful labor it had imposed upon him; his heart welling up only to the joyous reminiscence which the meeting brought to him.

“Well! well!” said he; “do you knowthat that brother of yours was my chum in Congress. Yes, sir, we sat at the same desk and ate at the same table. He was a Whig and so was I. He was my chum, and I was very fond of him. And you are his brother, eh? Well! well! shake again.” And once more in the pressure of his great big hand his heart went out to this man in arms against the government, simply because his brother had been his chum and was a good fellow.

A couple more chairs by this time had been added to the scant furniture of the Adjutant-General’s tent, and the conversation drifted from Mr. Lincoln’s anecdotes of the pleasant hours he and Barringer had spent together, to the war, thence to the merits of military and civil leaders, North and South, illustrated here and there by some appropriate story, entirely new, full of humor and sometimes of pathos.

Several times the General made a movement to depart, fearing he was availing himself too lavishly of Mr.Lincoln’s affability, but each time was ordered to keep his seat, the President remarking that they were both prisoners, and he hoped the General would take some pity upon him and help him to talk about the times when they were both their own masters, and hadn’t everybody criticising and abusing them.

Finally, however, General Barringer arose, and was bowing himself out, when Mr. Lincoln once more took him by the hand almost affectionately, placed another hand upon his shoulder, and inquired quite seriously:

“Do you think I can be of any service to you?”

Not until we had all finished a hearty laugh at this quaint remark did the President realize the innocent simplicity of his inquiry, and when General Barringer was able to reply that “If anybody can be of service to a poor devil in my situation, I presume you are the man,” Mr. Lincoln drew a blank card from his vest pocket, adjusted his glasses, turned up the wick of thelamp, and sat down at General Bowers’ desk with all the serious earnestness with which you would suppose he had attached his name to the emancipation proclamation.

This was, however, all assumed. He was equipping himself and preparing us for one of his little jokes. While writing he kept up a running conversation with General Barringer (who was still standing and wondering) to this effect:

“I suppose they will send you to Washington, and there I have no doubt they will put you in the old Capitol prison. I am told it isn’t a nice sort of a place, and I am afraid you won’t find it a very comfortable tavern; but I have a powerful friend in Washington—he’s the biggest man in the country,—and I believe I have some influence with him when I don’t ask too much. Now I want you to send this card of introduction to him, and if he takes the notion he may put you on your parole, or let up on you that way orsome other way. Anyhow, it’s worth while trying.”

And then very deliberately drying the card with the blotter, he held it up to the light and read it to us in about the following words:

“This is General Barringer, of the Southern army. He is the brother of a very dear friend of mine. Can you do any thing to make his detention in Washington as comfortable as possible under the circumstances?“A. Lincoln.“ToHon. Edwin M. Stanton,“Secretary of War.”

“A. Lincoln.“ToHon. Edwin M. Stanton,“Secretary of War.”

Barringer never uttered a word. I think he made an effort to say “Thank you,” or “God bless you,” or something of that kind, but he was speechless. We both wheeled about and left the tent.

After walking a few yards, not hearing any footsteps near me, and fearing Barringer had lost his way, I turned back and found this gallant leader of brave men, who had won his stars in ascore of battles, “like Niobe, all tears,” audibly sobbing and terribly overcome.

He took my arm, and as we walked slowly home he gave voice to as hearty expressions of love for the great Lincoln as have been since uttered by his most devoted and life-long friends.

A few years afterwards I met the General socially in Philadelphia, and we went over this episode in his life, as I have narrated it, and then, for the third time, his eyes filled as he told me how he had wept and wept at “the deep damnation of his taking off.”

The “bull pen,” of which I have already spoken, was, in these early days of April, so densely packed with prisoners of war that the overflow were permitted to sleep outside the enclosure. Poor fellows, there was little danger of their running away. Such a mass of hungry, unshaven, ragged, and forlorn humanity was never seen before, and will, I hope,never again be seen in our country. No wonder they looked tattered and torn, fighting for days in the trenches, then driven from pillar to post and hunted down till they fell by the road-side from sheer exhaustion; then captured and hurried to City Point, several miles distant, through rain and mud, with no shelter, no food, no any thing, save the little which the Union soldier in mercy and pity could spare from his own scanty supply. In the “bull pen,” however, they had plenty of hotrealcoffee (so long a stranger to their lips), and good fresh bread and meat, and after a day’s rest they were sent by the boat-load to the North. My husband did his best to provide comfortable quarters for the Confederate officers, and brought Generals Ewell, Barringer, and Custis Lee to our own little house. The two former dined with us upon theirarrival, but, if I remember rightly, the latter went right on to Washington. It gave me great pleasure to have these distinguished men as my guests, rebels though they were, and I was glad to have it in my power to show them that there was a disposition to welcome the prodigals’ return with the fatted calf. Being quite acordon bleumyself, it was not difficult to present an attractivemenu, consisting of superb raw oysters, green-turtle soup, a delicious James-River shad, and a fillet of army beef. A bottle of whiskey and another of brandy, and a cup of good black coffee constituted the dinner which, General Barringer was good enough to say, and said it as if he meant it, was the first square meal he had eaten in two years. The General was a charming gentleman, appreciative, tolerant, and resigned. General Ewell was irritable,disappointed, and disposed to be out of humor with every thing and everybody; yet who could blame him in that hour of his culminating misfortunes. The loss of a leg in battle appealed to my sympathy, the loss of station, fortune, and the attainment of his ambition made me pardon his irascibility. Among other things, he could not understand how a Southern woman could espouse the Northern cause simply because she had married a Northerner, but I forced him into a more cheerful mood, I think, when I told him that I had only followed the example of many other Southrons,—I had “gone with my State,” mine being the state of matrimony.

General Grant at this time was in pursuit of Lee’s retreating army, and my husband’s brigade was once more ordered on the march, while I, with my sick child, remained at CityPoint. It was not until April 14th that I considered my daughter well enough to travel, and then, without waiting for my husband’s return from Appomattox, I started for Philadelphia, taking a steamboat as far as Baltimore. The war was over; my husband was alive and well; my child was recovering; my life was brimful of gladness. With such happy thoughts and in such a mood I reached Baltimore, when I gradually became sensible of an abnormal condition of things, which indicated some fresh outbreak, and I became alarmed. People were hurrying through the streets, groups of men and women were engaged in eager discussion; something had happened. There were no cheers, no music; it was gloom! There had been acalamity. What was it? “The President has been murdered,” whispered my orderly, who had gone for information,“and nobody can go North to-day.” Oh, horror! I had learned to love Mr. Lincoln then, as younger people to-day love to read about him. I had seen him weep, had heard him laugh, had been gladdened by his wit and saddened by his pathos. I had looked up to him as one inspired. How glad I was afterwards to know that his untimely death was the act of a mad fanatic, and that my people who had fought a desperate but unreasonable war had no hand in it.

When I could collect my thoughts I gathered up my sick child and the little comforts I had brought with me to nourish and sustain her on the journey, and took myself to the nearest hotel, where I remained until the authorities permitted me to continue on my way the next morning. Later I was among the sad and silent multitude who witnessed thepassing of the funeral cortége up Broad Street, in Philadelphia. There were many joys in my life then which made me the happiest of women, but I could willingly have sacrificed some of them to bring that best of the very best back again into life.

In the middle of May, 1865, I was once more in camp, this time at Arlington Heights, Va., and witnessed the magnificent reviews of Meade’s and Sherman’s armies on Pennsylvania Avenue, in Washington. I shall never forget the dashing Custer, his sombrero, his flowing red scarf, his long blond hair,—thebeau idealof a cavalry leader, as his charger reared and pranced and became almost unmanageable; nor am I likely to forget that, for a better view, I was lifted above the crowd by the strong arms of my escort (I was then quitepetite), and that at that momentthe photograph fiend was on hand and secured the lasting evidence of the fact that I was in the arms of a stalwart man in broad daylight.

The continuous columns of these martial hosts, their victorious cheers, their well-worn uniforms, ribboned battle-flags, fifes, drums, and bands, seemed to give utterance to but a single thought, and that was: “This is the Northern army returning from its victory over the South”; but to-day, as I look back over twenty years of peace and prosperity, I feel that there was victory for the South in the defeat. It cost the lives of many dear ones, but this was theonlyloss. We are to-day one people—we might have been a dozen.

During this four-years’ drama I was sometimes in the audience, often behind the scenes, and once or twice upon the stage itself. When thecurtain fell at last I did not appreciate the awful grandeur and moment of the events, but now I realize that they stamped their impression upon my young life. They strengthened me for undertakings for which I otherwise would have lacked nerve and endurance, and they gave me a fonder longing for the comforts of Peace than is entertained by those who have never heard the wail of woful War.

THE END.

FOOTNOTES:[A]Generals Rawlins, Porter, Badeau, Dent, and the others of General Grant’s staff were at the front.

[A]Generals Rawlins, Porter, Badeau, Dent, and the others of General Grant’s staff were at the front.

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