Somethingwonderful’shappened. It’s got me so stirred up I don’t know which end of it to begin to tell first, and my hand’s all jumpy. Listen, Jim:This morning, as I was coming on duty at the hospital,I could tell the minute I got into the big outer hall something was up. Everybody was hurrying around, all flustered and het up, but all looking pleased as Punch. And the orderly at the door told me President Lincoln was making an inspection of the wards.I was crazy to see him; and I’d heard how he goes from bed to bed, talking to the sick soldiers just like they were his babies. So I started at a trot for the nearest ward, hoping I’d get one glimpse of him.And as I was starting to scuttle up the main stairway, what should I do but run into a party of folks that was coming down from the wards. Some of the doctors and officers were with them.And I pretty near collided, bang slap, with the gentleman who was coming down the stairs a step or two in front of the rest.I stopped and said: “Excuse me, sir. I wasn’t looking.” And then Ididlook.I looked up to where I thought his face would just naturally be. And I’m blest if it wasn’t only his chest instead. I kept looking up—up—up—till my neck near got a crick in it.And at last I saw his face.He looked about nine feet, thirteen inches high, and as thin as a rail. And his black clothes and his high pot-hat made him look a lot higher and thinner. But it wasn’t his figure I found I was gawping at. It was his face.Oh, Jim, such a face! Ugly, I suppose, and whiskered, and full of gullies and ridges.But it’s the strongest, wisest, kindest, wonderfulest face the Lord ever made. And the great big gray eyes looked as if they were holding the work and the bothers and the sorrows—and the fun, too—of the whole eternal universe.Yes, you’ve guessed who it was. Mr. Lincoln. No less.I just stood there, all flabbergasted; staring and courtsying. And he kept looking down at me with the sweetest, friendliest smile you ever saw.“Excuse me, sir,” I says again.“That’s all right, little woman,” he answers, in that deep, gentle voice of his. “The nurse deserves the right of way nowadays; even over the President. She earns it.”Just then, as I was moving aside (and longing, too, to thank him for being such a wonderful man) the superintendent steps up to him and says:“Mr. President, this is Nurse Sessions you were asking about. Would you care to speak to her now? My office is here to the right. You won’t be disturbed there.”Well, Jim, I could have gone through the floor, right then and there. I couldn’t believe my ears were telling me the truth. What could Mr. Lincoln have to say to me? And how could I have been away when he asked for me?I just stood trembling and looking foolish.And then Mr. Lincoln was smiling and holding out his hand—I wanted to kiss it!—and saying:“Mrs. Sessions, one of the reasons I came here this morning was for a little chat with you. Shall we step in here?”And I followed him into the superintendent’s office and he set a chair for me, just like I was a queen, and as if he was working for our folks.We sat down. And here’s what he said, as close as I can remember. And I guess I’m not liable to have forgotten the words:“Mrs. Sessions,” he began, “there is a very talkative little boy up in the Army of the Potomac. And it seems that after Antietam General Hooker sent for that little boy to ask him some questions about a wounded officer that General Hooker takes considerable interest in. And the boy, under Hooker’s questions, blabbed about that officer’s being engaged to marry a very lovely and dear little woman. General Hooker wrote to me about it. So I wanted a word or two with that little woman—abouthim.”Think of that, Jim! Justthinkof it. I made up my mind, that minute, I’d go to the hospital ear specialist right off and get him to find out why I’d taken to hearing things that couldn’t possibly have been said to me.But Mr. Lincoln went on, more serious:“Mrs. Sessions, I know Major Dadd’s story. All of it. He’s the kind of man I think I’d like to be friends with. Do you think he’d feel like meeting me?”“Oh, Mr. President!” I sputtered.I couldn’t say another word.“Because,” he goes on, his mouth-corners twisting up in a smile. “I’d like to have him come to see me. We owe him a good deal. And I want we should pay some of that debt. If he hangs back, and doesn’t think it’s worth while to come, just you tell him I’ve a couple of little presents for him.“One is from Congress. One is from me.”Yes, I was sure I’d have to go to that ear specialist, Jim!“The present from Congress, ma’am,” says Mr. Lincoln, “is a gold Distinguished Service Medal. It was voted him yesterday for his share in the Antietam campaign. But it wasn’t voted to James Dadd. I’ve put an end to ‘James Dadd’s’ existence with six strokes of the pen.”“I—I don’t understand, Mr. President,” I blurted out; and neither I did.“James Dadd,” he says, with another of those smiles that makes a body’s heart go all warm, “James Dadd was a mistake. I’ve rectified it. He is James Brinton, henceforward and always. Tell him never to forget that. Forit’s the way his name has been altered on the army lists.”He kind of paused for a second, then he said:“And, Mrs. Sessions, James Brinton is the name on a document I signed last night. I’ve about decided that Brinton isn’t really worthy to be a brevet-major any more after the way he behaved in the Antietam campaign. So, to punish him, I’ve just signed a commission making him a brigadier-general instead.”I don’t know, Jim, if it was then, or a while earlier, that I began crying. I guess it was then. I sat sopping my eyes and trying to say grand, eloquent things. But I could hear myself just saying: “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” all kind of sobby, over and over again, like a numb wit.But he seemed to understand. I guess he always understands. That’s what makes him different. He got up and took my hand again, and he said:“Tell him next time you write. And tell him, if he’s well enough, I want him to come to the White House next Tuesday afternoon. I want you to come, too, ma’am. And—don’t forget to tell him to bring Battle Jimmie along. I want to thank him, too.“And he and my boy, Tad, can get into mischief together while we old folks are gabbling.”He took his hat off of the table and he started for the door. When he got to the threshold he turned around and he said:“A man who has never stumbled is to be envied, Mrs. Sessions. But a man who has stumbled and then fought his way back again, strong and firm, to his feet, is the sort whose handsrealmen like to shake. Tell him that, too, ma’am, when you write. I guess he’ll know what I’m driving at.”Oh,Jim!
Somethingwonderful’shappened. It’s got me so stirred up I don’t know which end of it to begin to tell first, and my hand’s all jumpy. Listen, Jim:
This morning, as I was coming on duty at the hospital,I could tell the minute I got into the big outer hall something was up. Everybody was hurrying around, all flustered and het up, but all looking pleased as Punch. And the orderly at the door told me President Lincoln was making an inspection of the wards.
I was crazy to see him; and I’d heard how he goes from bed to bed, talking to the sick soldiers just like they were his babies. So I started at a trot for the nearest ward, hoping I’d get one glimpse of him.
And as I was starting to scuttle up the main stairway, what should I do but run into a party of folks that was coming down from the wards. Some of the doctors and officers were with them.
And I pretty near collided, bang slap, with the gentleman who was coming down the stairs a step or two in front of the rest.
I stopped and said: “Excuse me, sir. I wasn’t looking.” And then Ididlook.
I looked up to where I thought his face would just naturally be. And I’m blest if it wasn’t only his chest instead. I kept looking up—up—up—till my neck near got a crick in it.
And at last I saw his face.
He looked about nine feet, thirteen inches high, and as thin as a rail. And his black clothes and his high pot-hat made him look a lot higher and thinner. But it wasn’t his figure I found I was gawping at. It was his face.
Oh, Jim, such a face! Ugly, I suppose, and whiskered, and full of gullies and ridges.
But it’s the strongest, wisest, kindest, wonderfulest face the Lord ever made. And the great big gray eyes looked as if they were holding the work and the bothers and the sorrows—and the fun, too—of the whole eternal universe.
Yes, you’ve guessed who it was. Mr. Lincoln. No less.
I just stood there, all flabbergasted; staring and courtsying. And he kept looking down at me with the sweetest, friendliest smile you ever saw.
“Excuse me, sir,” I says again.
“That’s all right, little woman,” he answers, in that deep, gentle voice of his. “The nurse deserves the right of way nowadays; even over the President. She earns it.”
Just then, as I was moving aside (and longing, too, to thank him for being such a wonderful man) the superintendent steps up to him and says:
“Mr. President, this is Nurse Sessions you were asking about. Would you care to speak to her now? My office is here to the right. You won’t be disturbed there.”
Well, Jim, I could have gone through the floor, right then and there. I couldn’t believe my ears were telling me the truth. What could Mr. Lincoln have to say to me? And how could I have been away when he asked for me?
I just stood trembling and looking foolish.
And then Mr. Lincoln was smiling and holding out his hand—I wanted to kiss it!—and saying:
“Mrs. Sessions, one of the reasons I came here this morning was for a little chat with you. Shall we step in here?”
And I followed him into the superintendent’s office and he set a chair for me, just like I was a queen, and as if he was working for our folks.
We sat down. And here’s what he said, as close as I can remember. And I guess I’m not liable to have forgotten the words:
“Mrs. Sessions,” he began, “there is a very talkative little boy up in the Army of the Potomac. And it seems that after Antietam General Hooker sent for that little boy to ask him some questions about a wounded officer that General Hooker takes considerable interest in. And the boy, under Hooker’s questions, blabbed about that officer’s being engaged to marry a very lovely and dear little woman. General Hooker wrote to me about it. So I wanted a word or two with that little woman—abouthim.”
Think of that, Jim! Justthinkof it. I made up my mind, that minute, I’d go to the hospital ear specialist right off and get him to find out why I’d taken to hearing things that couldn’t possibly have been said to me.
But Mr. Lincoln went on, more serious:
“Mrs. Sessions, I know Major Dadd’s story. All of it. He’s the kind of man I think I’d like to be friends with. Do you think he’d feel like meeting me?”
“Oh, Mr. President!” I sputtered.
I couldn’t say another word.
“Because,” he goes on, his mouth-corners twisting up in a smile. “I’d like to have him come to see me. We owe him a good deal. And I want we should pay some of that debt. If he hangs back, and doesn’t think it’s worth while to come, just you tell him I’ve a couple of little presents for him.
“One is from Congress. One is from me.”
Yes, I was sure I’d have to go to that ear specialist, Jim!
“The present from Congress, ma’am,” says Mr. Lincoln, “is a gold Distinguished Service Medal. It was voted him yesterday for his share in the Antietam campaign. But it wasn’t voted to James Dadd. I’ve put an end to ‘James Dadd’s’ existence with six strokes of the pen.”
“I—I don’t understand, Mr. President,” I blurted out; and neither I did.
“James Dadd,” he says, with another of those smiles that makes a body’s heart go all warm, “James Dadd was a mistake. I’ve rectified it. He is James Brinton, henceforward and always. Tell him never to forget that. Forit’s the way his name has been altered on the army lists.”
He kind of paused for a second, then he said:
“And, Mrs. Sessions, James Brinton is the name on a document I signed last night. I’ve about decided that Brinton isn’t really worthy to be a brevet-major any more after the way he behaved in the Antietam campaign. So, to punish him, I’ve just signed a commission making him a brigadier-general instead.”
I don’t know, Jim, if it was then, or a while earlier, that I began crying. I guess it was then. I sat sopping my eyes and trying to say grand, eloquent things. But I could hear myself just saying: “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” all kind of sobby, over and over again, like a numb wit.
But he seemed to understand. I guess he always understands. That’s what makes him different. He got up and took my hand again, and he said:
“Tell him next time you write. And tell him, if he’s well enough, I want him to come to the White House next Tuesday afternoon. I want you to come, too, ma’am. And—don’t forget to tell him to bring Battle Jimmie along. I want to thank him, too.
“And he and my boy, Tad, can get into mischief together while we old folks are gabbling.”
He took his hat off of the table and he started for the door. When he got to the threshold he turned around and he said:
“A man who has never stumbled is to be envied, Mrs. Sessions. But a man who has stumbled and then fought his way back again, strong and firm, to his feet, is the sort whose handsrealmen like to shake. Tell him that, too, ma’am, when you write. I guess he’ll know what I’m driving at.”
Oh,Jim!
The old B. & O. station at Washington was crowded with hurrying soldiers and civilians one early October afternoon in 1862. From an incoming train alighted three figures who caught the interested gaze of more than one passer-by.
The trio were a tall man in late middle-age, whose face was still thin and white as from sharp illness; a small and red-headed boy whose alert eyes gloated on the noisy bustle and confusion around him, and a small yellow dog, whose nondescript coat had been painstakingly washed and combed for the occasion until it shone (and reeked with the scent of castile soap), and around whose short neck a wide red-white-and-blue ribbon was tied into a tremendous bow.
As the three comrades won their way clear of the station crowds and to the street outside a man in uniform stepped up to them.
“Major Brinton?” he asked cordially.
“Yes, sir,” replied Dad, thrilling at sound of the old name.
“I am President Lincoln’s military aid,” said the officer. “I was sent here to meet you and take you to the White House. There is the carriage at the curb. I am very glad indeed to see you, sir. Your services have been great.
“By the way,” he added, glancing at Dad’s belt, “this is not to be a formal reception. It isn’t necessary to wear your sword, if it incommodes you at all.”
“This sword, sir,” answered Dad, laying a reverent hand on its hilt, “was given me by a lady who’s waitingfor me at the White House. I promised her I’d never draw it without cause, or sheathe it without honor. I’m going to wear it to the White House and tell her I’ve kept my promise.”
“As you wish,” said the aid pleasantly. “The carriage is—”
“Will you mind, sir,” interposed Dad, “if we march instead? Once I left the army—on foot. I would like to go on foot to a reward I don’t deserve. A silly fancy, maybe. But I’ve looked forward to it a long, long time. Especially since I was sick. March, Jimmie!”
Word had passed around as to the trio’s identity. A little crowd had gathered. From the onlookers, as Dad and Battle Jimmie fell into step, went up a cheer.
The two saluted, squared their shoulders, and set forth on their march of triumph, Emp trotting proudly ahead of them in all the glory of his patriotic ribbon and scoured coat.
And so did Dad Brinton come to his own.
THE END