CHAPTERXXV
“We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be by the better angels of our nature.”—Abraham Lincoln.
“We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be by the better angels of our nature.”—Abraham Lincoln.
Duringthe last year of the war I was still working for the “Boys” at City Point Depot Field Hospital, Virginia, half a mile from the headquarters of the United States Armies in the field, at the junction of the Appomattox and James Rivers, when the day of the second inaugural drew near. This caused a welcome ripple of excitement to spread over the daily monotony of discipline in hospital camp life. The fearless President was to stand once more before the people to take the oath to uphold the institutions and principles of his country, despite the state policy as well as humanity that had compelled the passing of the Emancipation Act, that had cut the last thread of hope for the return of “the good old days” of the South.
Title or descriptionTHE PERRY PICTURES. 125.COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY M. P. RICE.BOSTON EDITION.ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
THE PERRY PICTURES. 125.COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY M. P. RICE.
BOSTON EDITION.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
When Abraham Lincoln, with superhuman courage, made that moral stroke of the pen that gave freedom to millions of slaves, then was born at last a free country, not only in name, but in the glorious fact that had blotted out from our country’s escutcheon the shame of human slavery that had so long branded our vaunted freedom as a disgrace. The people, the great middle class, the saviours of freedom who in great crises rise to a national emergency like a towering Gibraltar, had risen to uphold the weary hands of him who loved his country more than life, though so often it had seemed as if the waves of care and sorrow would engulf his tired soul.
Many officers, and others able to secure leave of absence or passes, hastened to witness this greatest of our national events. With other State Agency ladies, I was anxious to break the long strain of caring for sick and wounded patients amid scenes of the horrors of war and bloodshed. Nine thousand men, at different times, filled this well-organized camp. Mangled bodies were brought directly in from the battle-fields where they had fallen, by means of temporary rails, on rough bare sand cars, on which they were piled like so many logs, one upon another, so great was the need of haste to get them to the hospital. All of these were covered with dirt, powder, blood, torn uniforms, and seemed an almost indistinguishable mass; while many a half-severed limb dangled from a shattered human trunk.
I was fortunate in being able to go to Washington quite independently, without fear of detention, having a pass from General Grant that ordered all guards, pickets, steamboats and government roads to pass “Miss Ada W. Smith,” and which practically would have allowed me to travel free without question over the entire Northern States, as all roads were then under government control. Thus was I enabled to accept the invitation of Dr. Hettie K. Painter, Pennsylvania State Agent, and her husband, to join their party going to Washington. On arriving in that city we went to a small hotel, where we met some Western friends, and found there also a former patient from City Point, Lieutenant Gosper, who had lost a leg in the skirmish before Petersburg, and was now convalescent. He manifested the usual cheerfulness of wounded men, while waiting to have an artificial limb adjusted,—a free gift from the government.
We had secured tickets and good places to see the official ceremony; but the surging mass of humanity crowded us quite beyond hearing. On this eventful morning a raw, threatening gale blew dust and loose debris into our eyes and faces, nearly blinding us.
“And men looked up with mad disquietude upon the dull sky,” as we awaited the signal of the President’s coming. At last the tall, gaunt form of Mr. Lincoln came forward on to the portico of the Capitol, surrounded by officials and attendants. Chief Justice Chase opened the great Bible, and President Lincoln stepped forward, placing his hand upon the book to take, for the second time, his oath of office. At this moment, the leaden sky, that had not lifted during the day, suddenly opened a small rift, while a strong bright ray of sunshine shot through and rested upon the noble head of the soon-to-be-glorified martyr. A silence of awe seemed for a moment to overspread the startled multitude, and then the darkening gloom closed down again as with an ominous foreboding. But not a word of that memorable address could we hear above the soughing, cold, gusty wind.
While planning for the reception, our young lieutenant, sensitive and refined, positively declined to accompany us, repeating only: “It is no place for a cripple.”
After we had exhausted all other arguments, a happy thought came to me: “Well, Lieutenant, if you will not go with us I suppose I shall have to stay away also; each of the other ladies has an escort, and, as every lady must be attended, I can not go alone.”
“Would you go to a reception with a cripple on a crutch?” he replied, sadly.
My answer came quickly and sincerely: “I would be proud of such an escort!”
At last he consented, rather reluctantly, to accompany us. At the appointed hour we started for the evening reception. Soon, however, we found ourselves in a frightful crush of people, crowding up the White House steps, and we quickly closed around the lieutenant, fearing he might get under foot. Our party was carried up bodily to the landing, where I found that my arm was quite badly bruised by the crutch.
After getting breath and composing ourselves, we fell into the long procession of couples approaching the President, where the ushers went through the form of taking our names and introducing us. In passing we saw a group of cabinet officers and a number of ladies with Mrs. Lincoln, who was gowned in white satin with a deep black thread lace flounce over an expansive skirt, in the style of that day; and she wore her favorite head dress, a wreath of natural pink roses entirely around her plainly dressed hair.
The President’s band played stirring airs in an adjoining room, while crowds of every grade passed on, some in dashing uniforms, some in evidently fresh “store clothes,” others in gorgeous costumes, and the good women from the country in sensible black,—with ill-fitting gloves. It was a motley democratic crowd, such as could be seen in no royal country, and of which we are justly proud. Following the almost endless procession we saw the unmistakable form of Mr. Lincoln, his long arm and white-gloved hand reaching out to shake hands, and bowing in a mechanical manner, plainly showing that he wished this demand of the people was well over.
Suddenly straightening up his tall form, while continuing the handshaking, he looked eagerly down the line and, to my surprise, as the lieutenant and I approached, he stepped out before us and, grasping the hand of the crippled soldier, he said in an unforgettable tone of deep sympathy: “God bless you, my boy! God bless you!” Owing to the lieutenant’s crutch I was obliged to take his left arm which brought me on the outside away from the President. I attempted to pass with a bow, but he stood in my way, still holding out his large hand, until I released mine and gave it to him, receiving a warm, sympathetic grasp. Then I saw that wonderful lighting of his kindly beneficent grey eyes, that for a moment often beautified as with a halo that otherwise plain, sad face. As we moved on, the lieutenant exclaimed in happy exultation, “Oh! I’d lose another leg for a man like that!”
Such was the magnetic tone and touch of that rare spirit that carried hope and trust to the hopeless sorrowing, the great heart that could with truth and sincerity enfold not only his own country, but the whole human brotherhood of the world, and caused him to reply in effect to those who wished him to subscribe to some special creed: “When I can find a church broad enough to take in the whole human race, then I will join it.”
Once again I saw President Lincoln, after the inaugural, early in April—that fateful month in which occurred the last battle of the rebellion, the surrender of heroic Lee, the act of the magnanimous Grant, the imprisonment of the Confederate leader, the conference of those great men of war and state.
When Abraham Lincoln had come, in his own boat the River Queen, to meet Grant and Sherman at City Point, he was so secure in the conclusion of peace at last, that he had brought Mrs. Lincoln and “little Tad” to share in the general rejoicing.
I did not see Mrs. Lincoln at that time, and I had also missed seeing her in 1863, when I had taken to the famous Soldier’s Rest and Hospital in Philadelphia one soldier blinded by a bullet that passed through his head, cutting both optic nerves, one who had lost both legs, and another who had lost both arms.
During the war, when the troops were en route to the front and halted in Philadelphia, the great Liberty Bell announced their coming, and hundreds of women and many men hastened with bountiful supplies to this great Rest, where they set up rough wooden tables. Here many passing regiments had a generous meal, and almost lifted the roof with their grateful shouts, exceeded only by those of the outside crowd as they marched away to the jolly tune of the fife and drum.
At City Point the three Titans of war and state—Lincoln, Grant and Sherman—met with navy and state officers to conclude the terms of surrender and peace. There was no desire to confirm the battle cry, “Hang Jeff Davis,” as in most countries would have been inevitable, and even sympathy and mercy inspired the closing acts of this national tragedy that had cost the lives of thousands of brave Southerners, and of those of the invincible North.
During this mighty conclave at City Point, Abraham Lincoln was occasionally seen riding to the front and about camp and hospital, and to visit the tents, in his sombre black suit and high hat towering above many striking uniforms about him. It was a singular fact that while many ministers had come down to “overlook the field” dressed in the same fashion, except that there was always somehow a ministerial dip of the front corners of their long frock coats that at once betrayed their profession, they were often ridiculed and guyed by the rough soldiers. Yet the thought of ridicule was never suggested for this unique man who seemed to dignify and honor everything he touched, even when, in the same style, he rode his horse in an ungainly manner. He could have ridden bareback without loss of dignity.
On one of these occasions Mr. Lincoln had ridden up from the Point to visit our hospital, and was, as usual, accompanied by crowds of devoted friends as he walked through the divisions and avenues of the different camps. There were gathered the sick and wounded of the Ninth, Sixth, Fifth, Second Corps, and the Corps d’ Afric, who were frequently visited by their regimental surgeons and officers of regiments that were encamped before Petersburg.
I shall always regret not speaking to Mr. Lincoln at that time. It would have been very easy to do, but I could not see the coming catastrophe, and I hesitated to push forward into the surrounding crowd to be presented. As he passed from tent to tent, with many a cheerful word to the suffering men, a young man connected with the Sanitary Commission, now Doctor Jerome Walker, a successful physician of Brooklyn, said, pointing to some tents near-by, “Mr. President, you do not want to go in there!”
“Why not, my boy?” he asked.
“Why, sir, they are sick rebel prisoners.”
With a hasty movement he said, “That is just where I do want to go,” and he strode within the tent, shaking hands and speaking such words of comfort as only his magnanimous spirit could prompt, to the grateful surprise and pleasure of the Confederate patients.
ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN
On the morning of April 15th, 1865, as the sun rose over our quiet hospital camp, I was startled by the sound of galloping hoofs, that stopped suddenly before our tent. Scratching on the canvas indicated the usual sign for admission. Hastily untying the tent flaps, I found Major William Baker, of the Tenth Colored Troops, still mounted, and betraying much agitation and haste, when he said: “I have just ridden up to tell you, the first person in the hospital, the sad news of the reported death of the President. All officers were assembled at 2 A. M. to a conference, when the reported assassination by Wilkes Booth was read, but not yet officially confirmed.” With a sad expression and a salute he put spurs to his horse and dashed back to City Point.
Telegrams were slow in those days, so it was not till the afternoon that the terrible, cruel tragedy was announced at the hospital camp. The shock was paralyzing, and a sombre silence spread over the wards containing the men who had learned to love this great soul. Men and women as well as soldiers wept together as for a loved, indulgent father, who had borne his crushing responsibilities without a murmur or a cry for help. A few copperhead patients dared to approve of the murderous act, but they were soon beaten into silence with the crutches of the indignant crippled convalescents.
WILLIAM BAKERMAJOR WILLIAM BAKER
MAJOR WILLIAM BAKER
J. WILKES BOOTHJ. WILKES BOOTH
J. WILKES BOOTH
With a vague desire to express in some way their grief, men came and begged for a bit of black to fasten over their tents, and if any were so luckless as to have a black suit they saw it speedily reduced to shreds and flying from the entrances of the wards or tents. But other men still begged so earnestly for some black emblem, that I at last gave to them a full train black skirt that I could illy spare. This soon became floating ribbons over many a tent, to the great satisfaction of the loyal boys, having so little by which they could express their sorrow. In a few days some of us were so fortunate as to receive from home or from Washington, mourning badges of suitable designs, which we wore as a mark of respect to our dead President.
In making the rounds among my scattered patients I stopped to speak to Major Prentiss, of a New York regiment, who had captured his wayward young brother—a Captain in the Sixth Maryland Confederate Infantry—now lying in the same ward quite near, having lost a leg. The Captain, a handsome, cheerful youth, whose happy jokes and stories kept his neighbours quite diverted from the tedium of convalescence, was recovering slowly; but the Major had been shot through the lung, and one could hear the air passing through the unhealed wound. He looked so longingly at the badge I was wearing, that another brother, who had come South to take the patients home if possible, said: “He would be so happy if he could have a badge.” It was impossible to ignore the wish of a dying soldier, so I took off the one I was wearing and pinned it over his heart. He could not speak his thanks, but a rare smile of intense satisfaction spread over the sufferer’s countenance.
As in most great catastrophes, it seemed for a time as if the world must stand still; but many patients still needed care, and we were obliged to go on with our work till all the sick were sent home or to Northern hospitals, and each resumed his daily duty, while the spirit of sadness hovered over the hospital campus.
Lincoln was not a type,No ancestors, no fellows, no successors.Ingersoll.
Lincoln was not a type,No ancestors, no fellows, no successors.Ingersoll.
Lincoln was not a type,
No ancestors, no fellows, no successors.
Ingersoll.
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red,Where on the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deckYou’ve fallen cold and dead.My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;Exult O shores, and ring O bellsBut I, with mournful tread,Walk the deck, my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.Walt Whitman.
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red,Where on the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deckYou’ve fallen cold and dead.My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;Exult O shores, and ring O bellsBut I, with mournful tread,Walk the deck, my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.Walt Whitman.
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deckYou’ve fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;Exult O shores, and ring O bellsBut I, with mournful tread,Walk the deck, my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.Walt Whitman.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck, my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Walt Whitman.