Hundreds of loyal women labored devotedly during the Civil War
ministering to the needs of the northern soldiers. Of them all, none
worked more effectively or earned a larger measure of appreciation and
devotion on the part of those she served than Mrs. Cordelia A. P.
Harvey, wife of Governor Lewis Harvey of Wisconsin. After his tragic
death by drowning at Savannah, Tennessee, while engaged in a mission
of mercy to Wisconsin’s wounded soldiers, Mrs. Harvey conceived the
idea that it was her duty to carry forward the work that her husband
had left unfinished. In September, 1862, Governor Salomon appointed
her sanitary agent at St. Louis, and until the end of the war she
continued in this service. Some idea of her methods and of their
effectiveness may be gained from the narrative which follows. What the
soldiers thought of her is sufficiently indicated by the title “The
Angel of Wisconsin,” which they bestowed upon her.
The narrative we print is from Mrs. Harvey’s typewritten copy of a
lecture which she delivered following the close of the war. This
manuscript the owner, Mrs. James Selkirk of Clinton, Wisconsin,
permitted the Wisconsin History Commission to copy a few years since,
and it was made the basis, in large part, of chapters VIII and IX of
Hurn’s _Wisconsin Women in the War between the States_, published by
the commission in 1911. Prior to this the portion of the paper
pertaining to President Lincoln was drawn upon by J. G. Holland in
preparing his life of Lincoln. Thus the paper has twice been drawn
upon freely for publication. Notwithstanding this, the complete story
in Mrs. Harvey’s own words is sufficiently interesting and important
to justify its publication at this time. In the preparation of the
narrative for publication a few changes in punctuation and typography
have been made, and one paragraph, clearly interpolated for the
benefit of the lecturer’s younger hearers, has been deleted. These
things aside, the story is now printed for the first time just as Mrs.
Harvey composed it.
* * * * *
Perhaps it is not well to open too frequently the deep wells of past
sorrow that we may drink the bitter draughts which memory offers.
Still, we would not forget the past--our glorious past--with all its
terrible trials, its untold sufferings, its unwritten history. The
Christian never forgets the dying groans on Calvary that gave to him
his soul’s salvation; neither can an American citizen forget the great
price paid for the life and liberty of this nation. Next to love of
God is love of country.
It is not my object to awaken any morbid feelings of sentimental
sorrow, or to open again the deep wounds which time has healed.
Neither do I wish to serve up to an unhealthy imagination a dish of
fearful horrors from which a healthy organization must turn away. I
would only ask you to look at the shadows a little while, that the
life and light of peace and plenty which now fill our land may by
contrast impress upon your hearts a picture more beautiful than any
artist could place on canvas. Shadows always make the light more
beautiful.
In the fall of 1862 I found myself in Cape Girardeau, where hospitals
were being improvised for the immediate use of the sick and dying then
being brought in from the swamps by the returning regiments and up the
rivers in closely crowded hospital boats. These hospitals were mere
sheds filled with cots as thick as they could stand, with scarcely
room for one person to pass between them. Pneumonia, typhoid, and camp
fevers, and that fearful scourge of the southern swamps and rivers,
chronic diarrhea, occupied every bed. A surgeon once said to me,
“There is nothing else there: here I see pneumonia, and there fever,
and on that cot another disease, and I see nothing else! You had
better stay away; the air is full of contagion, and contagion and
sympathy do not go well together.”
One day a woman passed through these uncomfortable, illy-ventilated,
hot, unclean, infected, wretched rooms, and she saw something else
there. A hand reached out and clutched her dress. One caught her shawl
and kissed it, another her hand, and pressed it to his fevered cheek;
another in wild delirium, cried, “I want to go home! I want to go
home! Lady! Lady! Take me in your chariot, take me away!” This was a
fair-haired, blue-eyed boy of the South, who had left family and
friends forever; obeying his country’s call, he enlisted under the
stars and stripes because he could not be a traitor. He was therefore
disowned, and was now dying among strangers with his mother and
sisters not twenty miles away; and they knew that he was dying and
would not come to him. Father, forgive them, they knew not what they
did.
As this woman passed, these “diseases,” as the surgeon called them,
whispered and smiled at each other, and even reached out and took hold
of each others’ hands, saying, “She will take us home, I know her; she
will not leave us here to die,” not dreaming that hovering just above
them was a white robed one, who in a short time would take them to
their heavenly home.
This woman failed to see on these cots aught but the human [beings]
they were to her, the sons, brothers, husbands, and fathers of anxious
weeping ones at home; and as such she cared for and thought of them.
Arm in arm with health, she visited day by day every sufferer’s cot,
doing, it is true, very little, but always taking with her from the
outside world fresh air, fresh flowers, and all the hope and comfort
she could find in her heart to give them. Now and then one would
totter forth into the open air, his good constitution having overcome
disease, and the longings for life so strong within him that he
grasped at straws, determined to live. If perchance he could get a
furlough, in a few weeks a strong man would return and greet you with,
“How do you do, I am on my way to my regiment!” Who this stranger
might be, you could never imagine until reminded by him of the
skeleton form and trembling steps you had so recently watched going to
the landing, homeward bound. But if, as was too frequently the case,
he was sent to convalescent camps, in a few weeks he was returned to
hospital, and again to camp, and thus continued to vibrate between
camp and hospital until hope and life were gone. This was the fate of
thousands.
On a steamer from Cape Girardeau to Helena at table one day when the
passengers were dining, among whom were several military officers, I
heard a young major of the regular army very coolly remark that it was
much cheaper for the government to keep her sick soldiers in hospitals
on the river than to furlough them. A lady present quietly replied,
“That is true, Major, if all were faithful to the government, but
unfortunately a majority of the surgeons in the army have
conscientious scruples, and verily believe it to be their duty to keep
these sick men alive as long as possible. To be sure, their uneaten
rations increased the hospital fund and so enabled your surgeons
generously to provide all needed delicacies for the sick, but the pay
was drawn by the soldiers from the government all the same. Don’t you
think, Sir, it would be a trifle more economical,” continued the lady,
“to send these poor fellows north for a few weeks, to regain their
strength, that they might return at once to active service?” The
laughter of his brother officers prevented my hearing his reply.
This young officer was the medical director at Helena, where I found
over two thousand graves of Northeners. Two-thirds of these men might
have been saved, could they have been sent north. The surgeon in
charge of the general hospital, when asked why he did not furlough
some of the men from his over-crowded hospitals, replied that he had
at one time and another made out certificates of disability for
furlough for nearly every man in his hospital and for hundreds who
rested on the nearby hill, but when sent for the signature and
approval of the medical director, they had invariably been returned,
disapproved; that he had also permitted the men themselves to go with
their papers, only to have them severely reproved and ordered back to
hospital, and, said he, with tears in his eyes, “many of them never
returned, for, broken-hearted, they have lain down by the roadside and
died.”
I once heard a person who had been instrumental in giving a dying boy
back to his mother, that she might nurse him back to life, relate how
it was done. The mother had succeeded in getting her son as far as St.
Louis where his papers were to be sent. They came in the usual way to
the medical director, were all wrong, of course--not made out
according to army regulations and must therefore be returned to his
regiment, which was somewhere with Sherman and could not be reached.
The mother received the papers with that fearful word “disapproved”
written upon them. There was nothing to do but to place her sick son
in a St. Louis hospital, and leave him there to die; she must return
to her family. She told her story with streaming eyes and a broken
heart. The woman impulsively said, “Give me the papers,” and off she
went to the medical director’s office. He was a man full six feet
high, over fifty years of age, a head like Oliver Cromwell’s, a face
stern as fate, and of the regular army. She entered his presence,
seated herself, and waited to be spoken to.
Soon it came with, “What do you want?”
“To talk with you a moment, General,” she replied.
“No time for talking.”
“I will wait,” she said.
He wrote a few moments, then said, “May as well hear it now as
ever--what is it?”
“I would like to ask you if you had a son in this volunteer service,
sent up from the South as far as St. Louis, sick and like to die, and
some ignorant, careless officer had made out his furlough papers
wrong--”
“What do you want!”
“--would you not be glad, if you were away, if your poor boy could
find a friend?”
“What do you want, I say? This is nothing to the purpose.”
“Do you not think that friend ought to do all she could to save your
boy?”
“What is all this nonsense?”
“Only this: a poor mother is at the Soldiers’ Home with her dying son.
The physicians say he may live if he is sent north, but will surely
die if left here. His furlough papers have been sent on, and I have
seen them, and know they are wrong. His regiment is with Sherman on
the march. Cannot something be done for the boy--for his mother?”
“We have the army regulations, we cannot go behind them. You know if I
do, they will rap me over the knuckles at Washington.”
“Oh, that your knuckles were mine. I would be willing to have them
skinned; the skin would grow again, you know.”
“Where are these papers?” he said sharply.
“I have them here in my pocket.”
“Let me see them.”
The woman took them slowly out, blank side upwards, and gave them to
him. He turned them and his face flushed as he said, “Why I have had
these papers and disapproved them. This is my signature.”
She replied tremblingly, “I knew it, but forgive me. I thought maybe
when you knew about it, General--and the mother was weeping with the
skeleton arms of her boy around her neck--I thought maybe you would do
something or tell me something to do.”
“Suppose I do approve these papers, it will do no good. The general in
command will stop them and censure me.”
“But you will have done all you could and have obeyed the higher law.”
In the meantime this truly noble man had firmly crossed out his own
words and signature, and rewritten under it words of approval, and in
a quick, husky tone, said, “Take it and don’t you come here again
today.” As the woman raised her eyes to thank him, she saw a scowl on
his brow, but a smile on his lips, and a tear in his eye.
“The general in command,” said she in relating the story, “never went
behind the medical director’s signature. The boy started for home that
night with his mother, full of hope.”
Not long after this an incident occurred showing how easily man yields
to the higher law when once he makes humanity his standpoint. An
erring boy of nineteen, who had deserted from a Minnesota regiment,
changed his name, enlisted in the gunboat service from which he again
deserted, again changed his name, and enlisted in a Wisconsin
regiment, a little unsteady to be sure, but still a soldier. He was
wounded in a battle, honorably discharged from the service, and paid
off. On Saturday night he reached St. Louis and found his way to one
of her lowest dens, was drugged and robbed of everything he possessed.
On Monday he was found tossing from side to side stricken by disease.
His surroundings were terrible, and he was lying on an old, filthy
mattress which had been thrown into the open hall by the frightened
inmates. He was screaming with pain and was at times delirious. As
soon, however, as he heard the soothing tones of a human voice, and
recognized the hand of kindness on his burning brow, he cried,
“Mother! Oh, Mother, forgive me, God forgive me! I have sinned. What
shall I do! What shall I do!” Conscience and disease were doing their
work.
Softly speaking to him words of comfort and hope, our friend released
herself from his grasp, promising to return in half an hour to take
him away. This was easier said than done. This soldier was now a
citizen, and could not, therefore, be admitted into a military
hospital. His disease was of such a nature that in all probability he
must die--but his widowed mother, far away, must she know that her
darling soldier had died in such a place? God forbid! An order must be
had to place him in a military hospital.
The woman goes to her old friend, the medical director, and tells her
story in as few words as possible, saying, “General, write an order
quick to the surgeon in charge of the Fifth Street hospital, that the
boy may be received. I also want an ambulance, mattress, and bedding,
and some men to help me move him.”
“Yes, yes, but listen, I have no right, I can’t do it.”
“I know--I know, but please do hurry--I promised to be back in half an
hour, and the boy will expect me.”
The general, calling a boy and imitating her voice, said, “Hurry,
hurry, boy! Get the best ambulance we have, a good mattress and
bedding, and some men and go with Madame and do whatever she bids you
to do. Here is the order, what else do you want? Henceforth we do what
you wish and no questions asked. It is the easiest way and I guess the
only way to get along with you.” The mother mourned her son’s death,
but not his disgrace. In after months, this worthy officer by daring
to take responsibility performed many acts which will gladden his
dying hours.
In this way, one could be snatched from suffering and death now and
then, but Oh! the thousands that were beyond the reach of human aid,
and the numbers that no private individual power could help--only the
great military power! This conviction first led to the thought of
providing, if possible, some place where invalids could be sent north,
without the trouble of furloughs. The idea of northern military
hospitals seemed practicable and so natural that we never once thought
the authorities would oppose the movement. For nearly a year this
question was agitated and urged with all the force that logic,
position, and influence could bring to bear; but all in vain. Hope was
well nigh dead within us.
This depression in the South because of the utter failure of the
government to provide a way by which the enfeebled soldiers might be
restored to strength at last suggested the thought of going directly
to the head, to the President. By sending it up by one authority and
another, by this officer and that one, we began to feel that the
message lost the flavor of truth, and got cold before it reached the
deciding power; and because it was so lukewarm he spued it out of his
mouth. It is always best if you wish to secure an object, if you have
a certain purpose to accomplish, to go at once to the highest power,
be your own petitioner, in temporal as in spiritual matters, officiate
at your own altar, be your own priest.
I am going to give you another chapter in my own experience, as it
was, if I can do so, without the least coloring. There is not a more
difficult task than that of relating simple facts in such a manner as
to convey an entirely correct impression. The difficulty is increased
when the relator is an interested party. I trust I shall not be
accused of egotism if I give the exact conversations between Mr.
Lincoln and myself, as taken down at the time, for in no other way can
I so well picture to you our much loved and martyred president as he
then appeared at the White House. As I said before, the necessity for
establishing military hospitals in the North had long been a subject
of much thought among our people, but it was steadily opposed by the
authorities.
By the advice of friends and with an intense feeling that something
must be done, I went to Washington. I entered the White House, not
with fear and trembling, but strong and self-possessed, fully
conscious of the righteousness of my mission. I was received without
delay. I had never seen Mr. Lincoln before. He was alone, in a medium
sized office-like room, no elegance about him, no elegance in him. He
was plainly clad in a suit of black that illy fitted him. No fault of
his tailor, however; such a figure could not be fitted. He was tall
and lean, and as he sat in a folded up sort of way in a deep arm
chair, one would almost have thought him deformed. At his side stood a
high writing desk and table combined; plain straw matting covered the
floor; a few stuffed chairs and sofa covered with green worsted
completed the furniture of the presence chamber of the president of
this great republic. When I first saw him his head was bent forward,
his chin resting on his breast, and in his hand a letter which I had
just sent in to him.
He raised his eyes, saying, “Mrs. Harvey?”
I hastened forward, and replied, “Yes, and I am glad to see you, Mr.
Lincoln.” So much for republican presentations and ceremony. The
President took my hand, hoped I was well, but there was no smile of
welcome on his face. It was rather the stern look of the judge who had
decided against me. His face was peculiar; bone, nerve, vein, and
muscle were all so plainly seen; deep lines of thought and care were
around his mouth and eyes. The word “justice” came into my mind, as
though I could read it upon his face--I mean that extended sense of
the word that comprehends the practice of every virtue which reason
prescribes and society should expect. The debt we owe to God, to man,
to ourselves, when paid, is but a simple act of justice, a duty
performed. This attribute seemed the source of Mr. Lincoln’s strength.
He motioned me to a chair. I sat, and silently read his face while he
was reading a paper written by one of our senators, introducing me and
my mission. When he had finished reading this he looked up, ran his
fingers through his hair, well silvered, though the brown then
predominated; his beard was more whitened.
In a moment he looked at me with a good deal of sad severity and said,
“Madam, this matter of northern hospitals has been talked of a great
deal, and I thought it was settled, but it seems not. What have you
got to say about it?”
“Only this, Mr. Lincoln, that many soldiers in our western army on the
Mississippi River must have northern air or die. There are thousands
of graves all along our southern rivers and in the swamps for which
the government is responsible, ignorantly, undoubtedly, but this
ignorance must not continue. If you will permit these men to come
north you will have ten men where you have one now.”
The president could not see the force or logic in this last argument.
He shrugged his shoulders and said, “If your reasoning were correct,
it would be a good argument.” I saw that I had misspoken. “I don’t see
how,” he continued, “sending one sick man north is going to give us in
a year ten well ones.”
A quizzical smile played over his face at my slight embarrassment.
“Mr. Lincoln, you understand me, I think. I intended to say, if you
will let the sick come north, you will have ten well men in the army
one year from today, where you have one well one now; whereas, if you
do not let them come north, you will not have one from the ten, for
they will all be dead.”
“Yes, yes, I understand you; but if they are sent north, they will
desert; where is the difference?”
“Dead men cannot fight,” I answered, “and they may not desert.”
Mr. Lincoln’s eye flashed as he replied, “A fine way, a fine way to
decimate the army, we should never get a man of them back, not one,
not one.”
“Indeed, but you must pardon me when I say you are mistaken; you do
not understand our people. You do not trust them sufficiently. They
are as true and as loyal to the government as you say. The loyalty is
among the common soldiers and they have ever been the chief
sufferers.”
“This is your opinion,” he said with a sort of a sneer. “Mrs. Harvey,
how many men do you suppose the government was paying in the Army of
the Potomac at the battle of Antietam, and how many men do you suppose
could be got for active service at that time? I wish you would give a
guess.”
“I know nothing of the Army of the Potomac, only there were some noble
sacrifices there. When I spoke of loyalty, I referred to our western
army.”
“Well, now, give a guess. How many?”
“I cannot, Mr. President.”
He threw himself around in the chair, one leg over the arm, and again
spoke slowly: “This war might have been finished at that time if every
man had been in his place that was able to be there, but they were
scattered hither and thither over the North, some on furloughs, and in
one way or another, gone; so that out of 170,000 men which the
government was paying at that time, only 83,000 could be got for
action. The consequences, you know, proved nearly disastrous.”
“It was very sad but the delinquents were certainly not in northern
hospitals, neither were they deserters therefrom, for there are none.
This is, therefore, no argument against them.”
“Well, well, Mrs. Harvey, you go and see the Secretary of War and talk
with him and hear what he has to say.” This he said thoughtfully, and
took up the letter I had given him, and after writing something on the
back of it gave it to me.
“May I return to you, Mr. Lincoln?” I asked.
“Certainly,” he replied, and his voice was gentler than it had been
before.
I left him for the war department. I found written on the back of the
letter these words, “Admit Mrs. Harvey at once; listen to what she
says; she is a lady of intelligence and talks sense. A. Lincoln.” Not,
of course, displeased with the introduction, I went on my way to Mr.
Stanton, our secretary of war, about whose severity I had heard so
much that I must confess I dreaded the interview; but I was kindly
received, listened to respectfully, and answered politely. And let me
say here, as a passing tribute to this great and good man, that I
never knew a clearer brain, a truer heart, a nobler spirit than Edwin
M. Stanton. I have watched him by the hour, listening to and deciding
questions of minor moment as well as those of greater importance--those
upon which the fate of the nation depended, and yet he never wavered.
Quick to see the right, he never hesitated to act. His foresight and
his strength seemed at times more than human. His place as a statesman
will not be filled in this century.
But to return to my interview with him. After understanding the object
for which I came, he told me he had sent the Surgeon-General to New
Orleans with directions to come up the river and examine all
hospitals. In short, I understood he had started on a tour of
inspection, which meant nothing at all so far as the suffering was
concerned. I told Mr. Stanton, “Our western hospitals have never
received any benefit from these inspections, and we have very little
confidence that any good would result from them. Any person with
discernment, with a medium allowance of common sense and humanity, who
is loyal, and has been through our southern river hospitals, knows and
feels the necessity for what I ask, and yet you say you have never
received a report to this effect. The truth is, the medical
authorities know the heads of departments do not wish hospitals
established so far away from army lines, and report accordingly. I
wish this could be overruled; can nothing be done?”
“Nothing, until the Surgeon-General returns,” Mr. Stanton replied.
“Good morning,” I said, and left him, not at all disappointed.
Returning to Mr. Lincoln, I found it was past the usual hour for
receiving and no one was in the waiting-room. The messenger said I had
better go directly into the President’s room. It would be more
comfortable waiting there, and there was only one gentleman with him
and he would soon be through. I found my way to the back part of the
room, and seated myself on a sofa in such a position that the desk was
between Mr. Lincoln and me. I do not think that he knew I was there.
The gentleman with him had given him a paper. The President looked at
it carefully and said, “Yes, this is sufficient endorsement for
anybody; what do you want?”
I could not hear the reply distinctly, but the promotion of somebody
in the army, either a son or a brother, was strongly urged. I heard
the words, “I see there are no vacancies among brigadiers, from the
fact that so many colonels are commanding brigades.”
At this the President threw himself forward in his chair in such a
manner as to show me the most curious, comical face in the world. He
was looking the man straight in the eye, with the left hand raised to
a horizontal position, and his right hand patting it coaxingly, and
said, “My friend, let me tell you something; you are a farmer, I
believe; if not, you will understand me. Suppose you had a large
cattle yard, full of all sorts of cattle, cows, oxen, and bulls, and
you kept selling your cows and oxen, taking good care of your bulls;
bye and bye, you would find that you had nothing but a yard full of
old bulls, good for nothing under heaven, and it will be just so with
my army if I don’t stop making brigadier generals.” The man was
answered; he could scarcely laugh, though he tried to do so, but you
should have seen Mr. Lincoln laugh--he laughed all over, and fully
enjoyed the point if no one else did. The story, if not elegant, was
certainly apropos.
As I commenced to tell you everything I remember of this singular man,
this must fill its place. The gentleman soon departed, fully
satisfied, I doubt not, for it was a saying at Washington when one met
a petitioner, “Has Mr. Lincoln told you a story? If he has, it is all
day with you. He never says ‘yes’ after a story.”
I stepped forward as soon as the door closed. The President motioned
to a chair near him. “Well, what did the Secretary of War say?”
I gave a full account of the interview, and then said, “I have nowhere
else to go but to you.”
He replied earnestly, “Mr. Stanton knows very well that there is an
acting surgeon-general here, and that Hammond will not be back these
two months. I will see the Secretary of War myself, and you come in
the morning.”
I arose to take leave, when he bade me not to hasten, spoke kindly of
my work, said he fully appreciated the spirit in which I came. He
smiled pleasantly and bade me good evening.
As I left the White House, I met Owen Lovejoy who greeted me cordially
and asked, “How long are you going to stay here?”
“Until I get what I came after,” I replied.
“That’s right, that’s right; go on, I believe in the final
perseverance of the saints.”
I have never forgotten these words, perhaps it is because they were
the last I ever heard him utter.
I returned in the morning, full of hope, thinking of the pleasant face
I had left the evening before, but no smile greeted me. The President
was evidently annoyed by something, and waited for me to speak, which
I did not do. I afterward learned his annoyance was caused by a woman
pleading for the life of a son who was sentenced to be shot for
desertion under very aggravating circumstances.
After a moment he said, “Well,” with a peculiar contortion of face I
never saw in anybody else.
I replied, “Well,” and he looked at me a little astonished, I fancied,
and said, “Have you nothing to say?”
“Nothing, Mr. President, until I hear your decision. You bade me come
this morning; have you decided?”
“No, but I believe this idea of northern hospitals is a great humbug,
and I am tired of hearing about it.” He spoke impatiently.
I replied, “I regret to add a feather’s weight to your already
overwhelming care and responsibility. I would rather have stayed at
home.”
With a kind of half smile, he said, “I wish you had.”
I answered him as though he had not smiled. “Nothing would have given
me greater pleasure; but a keen sense of duty to this government,
justice and mercy to its most loyal supporters, and regard for your
honor and position made me come. The people cannot understand why
their friends are left to die when with proper care they might live
and do good service for their country. Mr. Lincoln, I believe you will
be grateful for my coming.” He looked at me intently; I could not tell
if he were annoyed or not, and as he did not speak, I continued: “I do
not come to plead for the lives of criminals, not for the lives of
deserters, not for those who have been in the least disloyal. I come
to plead for the lives of those who were the first to hasten to the
support of this government, who helped to place you where you are,
because they trusted you. Men who have done all they could, and now
when flesh, and nerve, and muscle are gone, still pray for your life
and the life of this republic. They scarcely ask for that for which I
plead--they expect to sacrifice their lives for their country. Many on
their cots, faint, sick, and dying, say, ‘We would gladly do more, but
I suppose that is all right.’ I know that a majority of them would
live and be strong men again if they could be sent north. I say I
know, because when I was sick among them last spring, surrounded by
every comfort, with the best of care, and determined to get well, I
grew weaker day by day, until, not being under military law, my
friends brought me north. I recovered entirely, simply by breathing
northern air.”
While I was speaking the expression of Mr. Lincoln’s face had changed
many times. He had never taken his eye from me. Now every muscle in
his face seemed to contract, and then suddenly expand. As he opened
his mouth you could almost hear them snap as he said, “You assume to
know more than I do,” and closed his mouth as though he never expected
to open it again, sort of slammed it to.
I could scarcely reply. I was hurt, and thought the tears would come,
but rallied in a moment and said, “You must pardon me, Mr. President,
I intend no disrespect, but it is because of this knowledge, because I
do know what you do not know, that I come to you. If you knew what I
do and had not ordered what I ask for, I should know that an appeal to
you would be vain; but I believe the people have not trusted you for
naught. The question only is whether you believe me or not. If you
believe me you will give me hospitals, if not, well--”
With the same snapping of muscle he again said, “You assume to know
more than surgeons do.”
“Oh, no! Mr. Lincoln, I could not perform an amputation nearly as well
as some of them do; indeed, I do not think I could do it at all. But
this is true--I do not come here for your favor, I am not an aspirant
for military honor. While it would be the pride of my life to be able
to win your respect and confidence, still, this I can waive for the
time being. Now the medical authorities know as well as I do that you
are opposed to establishing northern military hospitals, and they
report to please you; they desire your favor. I come to you from no
casual tour of inspection, passing rapidly through the general
hospitals, in the principal cities on the river, with a cigar in my
mouth and a rattan in my hand, talking to the surgeon in charge of the
price of cotton and abusing the generals in our army for not knowing
and performing their duty better, and finally coming into the open
air, with a long-drawn breath as though just having escaped
suffocation, and complacently saying, ‘You have a very fine hospital
here; the boys seem to be doing very well, a little more attention to
ventilation is perhaps desirable.’
“It is not thus; I have visited the hospitals, but from early morning
until late at night sometimes. I have visited the regimental and
general hospitals on the Mississippi River from Quincy to Vicksburg,
and I come to you from the cots of men who have died, who might have
lived had you permitted. This is hard to say, but it is none the less
true.”
During the time that I had been speaking Mr. Lincoln’s brow had become
very much contracted, and a severe scowl had settled over his whole
face. He sharply asked how many men Wisconsin had in the field, that
is, how many did she send? I replied, “About 50,000, I think, I do not
know exactly.”
“That means she has about 20,000 now.” He looked at me, and said, “You
need not look so sober, they are not all dead.”
I did not reply. I had noticed the veins in his face filling full
within a few moments, and one vein across his forehead was as large as
my little finger, and it gave him a frightful look.
Soon, with a quick, impatient movement of his whole frame, he said, “I
have a good mind to dismiss every man of them from the service and
have no more trouble with them!”
I was surprised at his lack of self-control, and I knew he did not
mean one word of what he said, but what would come next? As I looked
at him, I was troubled, fearing I had said something wrong. He was
very pale.
The silence was painful, and I said as quietly as I could, “They have
been faithful to the government; they have been faithful to you; they
will still be loyal to the government, do what you will with them; but
if you will grant my petition you will be glad as long as you live.
The prayer of grateful hearts will give you strength in the hour of
trial, and strong and willing arms will return to fight your battles.”
The President bowed his head, and with a look of sadness I can never
forget, said, “I never shall be glad any more.” All severity had
passed from his face. He seemed looking backward and heartward, and
for a moment he seemed to forget he was not alone; a more than mortal
anguish rested on his face.
The spell must be broken, so I said, “Do not speak so, Mr. President.
Who will have so much reason to rejoice when the government is
restored, as it will be?”
“I know, I know,” he said, placing a hand on each side and bowing
forward, “but the springs of life are wearing away.”