THE ARMY OF THE UNION: THE CHILDREN AND THE FLAG
The Army of the Union entered Richmond with almost the solemnity of a
processional entering church. It was occasion for solemn procession, that
entrance into our burning city where a stricken people, flesh of their
flesh and bone of their bone, watched in terror for their coming.
Our broken-hearted people closed their windows and doors and shut out as
far as they could all sights and sounds. Yet through closed lattice there
came that night to those living near Military Headquarters echoes of
rejoicings.
Early that fateful morning, Mayor Mayo, Judge Meredith and Judge Lyons
went out to meet the incoming foe and deliver up the keys of the city.
Their coach of state was a dilapidated equipage, the horses being but
raw-boned shadows of better days when there were corn and oats in the
land. They carried a piece of wallpaper, on the unflowered side of which
articles of surrender were inscribed in dignified terms setting forth that
"it is proper to formally surrender the City of Richmond, hitherto Capital
of the Confederate States of America." Had the words been engraved on
satin in letters of gold, Judge Lyons (who had once represented the United
States at the Court of St. James) could not have performed the honours of
introduction between the municipal party and the Federal officers with
statelier grace, nor could the latter have received the instrument of
submission with profounder courtesy. "We went out not knowing what we
would encounter," Mayor Mayo reported, "and we met a group of
Chesterfields." Major Atherton H. Stevens, of General Weitzel's staff, was
the immediate recipient of the wallpaper document.
General Weitzel and his associates were merciful to the stricken city;
they aided her people in extinguishing the flames; restored order and gave
protection. Guards were posted wherever needed, with instructions to
repress lawlessness, and they did it. To this day, Richmond people rise up
in the gates and praise that Army of the Occupation as Columbia's people
can never praise General Sherman's. Good effect on popular sentiment was
immediate.
Among many similar incidents of the times is this, as related by a
prominent physician:
"When I returned from my rounds at Chimborazo I found a Yankee soldier
sitting on my stoop with my little boy, Walter, playing with the tassels
and buttons on his uniform. He arose and saluted courteously, and told me
he was there to guard my property. 'I am under orders,' he said, 'to
comply with any wish you may express.'"
Dr. Gildersleeve, in an address (June, 1904) before the Association of
Medical Officers of the Army and Navy, C. S. A., referred to Chimborazo
Hospital as "the most noted and largest military hospital in the annals of
history, ancient or modern." With its many white buildings and tents on
Chimborazo Hill, it looked like a town and a military post, which latter
it was, with Dr. James B. McCaw for Commandant. General Weitzel and his
staff visited the hospital promptly. Dr. McCaw and his corps in full
uniform received them. Dr. Mott, General Weitzel's Chief Medical
Director, exclaimed: "Ain't that old Jim McCaw?" "Yes," said "Jim McCaw,"
"and don't you want a drink?" "Invite the General, too," answered Dr.
Mott. General Weitzel issued passes to Dr. McCaw and his corps, and gave
verbal orders that Chimborazo Confederates should be taken care of under
all circumstances. He proposed to take Dr. McCaw and his corps into the
Federal service, thus arming him with power to make requisition for
supplies, medicines, etc., which offer the doctor, as a loyal Confederate,
was unable to accept.
Others of our physicians and surgeons found friends in Federal ranks. To
how many poor Boys in Blue, longing for home and kindred, had not they and
our women ministered! The orders of the Confederate Government were that
the sick and wounded of both armies should be treated alike. True, nobody
had the best of fare, for we had it not to give. We were without
medicines; it was almost impossible to get morphia, quinine, and other
remedies. Quinine was $400 an ounce, when it could be bought at all, even
in the earlier years of the war. Our women became experts in manufacturing
substitutes out of native herbs and roots. We ran wofully short of
dressings and bandages, and bundles of old rags became treasures
priceless. But the most cruel shortage was in food. Bitter words in
Northern papers and by Northern speakers--after our defeat intensified,
multiplied, and illustrated--about our treatment of prisoners exasperated
us. "Will they never learn," we asked, "that on such rations as we gave
our prisoners, our men were fighting in the field? We had not food for
ourselves; the North blockaded us so we could not bring food from outside,
and refused to exchange prisoners with us. What could we do?"
I wonder how many men now living remember certain loaves of wheaten bread
which the women of Richmond collected with difficulty in the last days of
the war and sent to Miss Emily V. Mason, our "Florence Nightingale," for
our own boys. "Boys," Miss Emily announced--sick soldiers, if graybeards,
were "boys" to "Cap'n," as they all called Miss Emily--"I have some
flour-bread which the ladies of Richmond have sent you." Cheers, and other
expressions of thankfulness. "The poor, sick Yankees," Miss Emily went on
falteringly--uneasy countenances in the ward--"_can't_ eat corn-bread--"
"Give the flour-bread to the poor, sick Yankees, Cap'n!" came in cheerful,
if quavering chorus from the cots. "_We_ can eat corn-bread. Gruel is good
for us. We _like_ mush. Oughtn't to have flour-bread nohow." "Poor
fellows!" "Cap'n" said proudly of their self-denial, "they were tired to
death of corn-bread in all forms, and it was not good for them, for nearly
all had intestinal disorders."
Along with this corn-bread story, I recall how Dr. Minnegerode,
Protestant, and Bishop Magill, Catholic, used to meet each other on the
street, and the one would say: "Doctor, lend me a dollar for a sick
Yankee." And the other: "Bishop, I was about to ask _you_ for a dollar for
a sick Yankee." And how Annie E. Johns, of North Carolina, said she had
seen Confederate soldiers take provisions from their own haversacks and
give them to Federal prisoners _en route_ to Salisbury. As matron, she
served in hospitals for the sick and wounded of both armies. She said:
"When I was in a hospital for Federals, I felt as if these men would
defend me as promptly as our own."
In spite of the pillage, vandalism and violence they suffered, Southern
women were not so biassed as to think that the gentle and brave could be
found only among the wearers of the gray. Even in Sherman's Army were the
gentle and brave upon whom fell obloquy due the "bummers" only. I have
heard many stories like that of the boyish guard who, tramping on his beat
around a house he was detailed to protect, asked of a young mother: "Why
does your baby cry so?" She lifted her pale face, saying: "My baby is
hungry. I have had no food--and so--I have no nourishment for him." Tears
sprang into his eyes, and he said: "I will be relieved soon; I will draw
my rations and bring them to you." He brought her his hands full of all
good things he could find--sugar, tea, and coffee. And like that of two
young Philadelphians who left grateful hearts behind them along the line
of Sherman's march because they made a business of seeing how many women
and children they could relieve and protect. In Columbia, during the
burning, men in blue sought to stay ravages wrought by other men in blue.
I hate to say hard things of men in blue, and I must say all the good
things I can; because many were unworthy to wear the blue, many who were
worthy have carried reproach.
On that morning of the occupation, our women sat behind closed windows,
unable to consider the new path stretching before them. The way seemed to
end at a wall. Could they have looked over and seen what lay ahead, they
would have lost what little heart of hope they had; could vision have
extended far enough, they might have won it back; they would have beheld
some things unbelievable. For instance, they would have seen the little
boy who played with the buttons and tassels, grown to manhood and wearing
the uniform of an officer of the United States; they would have seen
Southern men walking the streets of Richmond and other Southern cities
with "U. S. A." on their haversacks; and Southern men and Northern men
fighting side by side in Cuba and the Philippines, and answering alike to
the name, "Yankees."
On the day of the occupation, Miss Mason and Mrs. Rhett went out to meet
General Weitzel and stated that Mrs. Lee was an invalid, unable to walk,
and that her house, like that of General Chilton and others, was in danger
of fire. "What!" he exclaimed, "Mrs. Lee in danger? General Fitz Lee's
mother, who nursed me so tenderly when I was sick at West Point! What can
I do for her? Command me!" "We mean Mrs. Robert E. Lee," they said. "We
want ambulances to move Mrs. Lee and other invalids and children to places
of safety." Using his knee as a writing-table, he wrote an order for five
ambulances; and the ladies rode off. Miss Emily's driver became suddenly
and mysteriously tipsy and she had to put an arm around him and back up
the vehicle herself to General Chilton's door, where his children, her
nieces, were waiting, their dollies close clasped.
"Come along, Virginia aristocracy!" hiccoughed the befuddled Jehu. "I
won't bite you! Come along, Virginia aristocracy!"
A passing officer came to the rescue, and the party were soon safely
housed in the beautiful Rutherford home.
The Federals filled Libby Prison with Confederates, many of whom were
paroled prisoners found in the city. Distressed women surrounded the
prison, begging to know if loved ones were there; others plead to take
food inside. Some called, while watching windows: "Let down your tin cup
and I will put something in it." Others cried: "Is my husband in there? O,
William, answer me if you are!" "Is my son, Johnny, here?" "O, please
somebody tell me if my boy is in the prison!" Miss Emily passed quietly
through the crowd, her hospital reputation securing admission to the
prison; she was able to render much relief to those within, and to subdue
the anxiety of those without.
"Heigho, Johnny Reb! in there now where we used to be!" yelled one Yankee
complacently. "Been in there myself. D----d sorry for you, Johnnies!" called
up another.
A serio-comic incident of the grim period reveals the small boy in an
attitude different from that of him who was dandled on the Federal knee.
Some tiny lads mounted guard on the steps of a house opposite Military
Headquarters, and, being intensely "rebel" and having no other means of
expressing defiance to invaders, made faces at the distinguished occupants
of the establishment across the way. General Patrick, Provost-Marshal
General, sent a courteously worded note to their father, calling his
attention to these juvenile demonstrations. He explained that while he was
not personally disturbed by the exhibition, members of his staff were, and
that the children might get into trouble. The proper guardians of the wee
insurgents, acting upon this information, their first of the battery
unlimbered on their door-step, saw that the artillery was retired in good
order, and peace and normal countenances reigned over the scene of the
late engagements.
I open a desultory diary Matoaca kept, and read:
"If the United States flag were my flag--if I loved it--I would not try to
make people pass under it who do not want to. I would not let them. It is
natural that we should go out of our way to avoid walking under it, a
banner that has brought us so much pain and woe and want--that has
desolated our whole land.
"Some Yankees stretched a flag on a cord from tree to tree across the way
our children had to come into Richmond. The children saw it and cried
out; and the driver was instructed to go another way. A Federal soldier
standing near--a guard, sentinel or picket--ordered the driver to turn
back and drive under that flag. He obeyed, and the children were weeping
and wailing as the carriage rolled under it."
In Raymond, Mississippi, negro troops strung a flag across the street and
drove the white children under it. In Atlanta, two society belles were
arrested because they made a detour rather than walk under the flag. Such
desecration of the symbol of liberty and union was committed in many
places by those in power.
The Union flag is my flag and I love it, and, therefore, I trust that no
one may ever again pass under it weeping. Those little children were not
traitors. They were simply human. If in the sixties situations had been
reversed, and the people of New York, Boston and Chicago had seen the
Union flag flying over guns that shelled these cities, their children
would have passed under it weeping and wailing. Perhaps, too, some would
have sat on doorsteps and "unbeknownst" to their elders have made faces at
commanding generals across the way; while others climbing upon the enemy's
knees would have played with gold tassels and brass buttons.
Our newspapers, with the exception of the "Whig" and the "Sentinel,"
shared in the general wreckage. A Northern gentleman brought out a tiny
edition of the former in which appeared two military orders promulgating
the policy General Weitzel intended to pursue. One paragraph read: "The
people of Richmond are assured that we come to restore to them the
blessings of peace and prosperity under the flag of the Union."
General Shepley, Military Governor by Weitzel's appointment, repeated this
in substance, adding: "The soldiers of the command will abstain from any
offensive or insulting words or gestures towards the citizens." With less
tact and generosity, he proceeded: "The Armies of the Rebellion having
abandoned their efforts to enslave the people of Virginia, have
endeavoured to destroy by fire their Capital.... The first duty of the
Army of the Union will be to save the city doomed to destruction by the
Armies of the Rebellion." That fling at our devoted army would have served
as a clarion call to us--had any been needed--to remember the absent.
"It will be a blunder in us not to overlook that blunder of General
Shepley's," urged Uncle Randolph.[1] "The important point is that the
policy of conciliation is to be pursued." With the "Whig" in his hand,
Uncle Randolph told Matoaca that the Thursday before Virginia seceded a
procession of prominent Virginians marched up Franklin Street, carrying
the flag of the Union and singing "Columbia," and that he was with them.
The family questioned if his mind were wandering, when he went on: "The
breach can be healed--in spite of the bloodshed--if only the Government
will pursue the right course now. Both sides are tired of hating and being
hated, killing and being killed--this war between brothers--if Weitzel's
orders reflect the mind of Lincoln and Grant--and they must--all may be
well--before so very long."
These were the men of the Union Army who saved Richmond: The First
Brigade, Third Division (Deven's Division), Twenty-fourth Army Corps, Army
of the James, Brevet-Brigadier-General Edward H. Ripley commanding. This
brigade was composed of the Eleventh Connecticut, Thirteenth New
Hampshire, Nineteenth Wisconsin, Eighty-first New York, Ninety-eighth New
York, One Hundredth and Thirty-ninth New York, Convalescent detachment
from the second and third divisions of Sheridan's reinforcements.
"This Brigade led the column in the formal entry, and at the City Hall
halted while I reported to Major-General Weitzel," says General Ripley.
"General Weitzel had taken up his position on the platform of the high
steps at the east front of the Confederate Capitol, and there, looking
down into a gigantic crater of fire, suffocated and blinded with the vast
volumes of smoke and cinders which rolled up over and enveloped us, he
assigned me and my brigade to the apparently hopeless task of stopping the
conflagration, and suppressing the mob of stragglers, released criminals,
and negroes, who had far advanced in pillaging the city. He had no
suggestions to make, no orders to give, except to strain every nerve to
save the city, crowded as it was with women and children, and the sick and
wounded of the Army of Northern Virginia.
"After requesting Major-General Weitzel to have all the other troops
marched out of the city, I took the Hon. Joseph Mayo, then Mayor of
Richmond, with me to the City Hall, where I established my headquarters.
With the help of the city officials, I distributed my regiment quickly in
different sections. The danger to the troops engaged in this terrific
fire-fighting was infinitely enhanced by the vast quantities of powder and
shells stored in the section burning. Into this sea of fire, with no less
courage and self-devotion than as though fighting for their own firesides
and families, stripped and plunged the brave men of the First Brigade.
"Meanwhile, detachments scoured the city, warning every one from the
streets to their houses.... Every one carrying plunder was arrested....
The ladies of Richmond thronged my headquarters, imploring protection.
They were sent to their homes under the escort of guards, who were
afterwards posted in the center house of each block, and made responsible
for the safety of the neighborhood.... Many painful cases of destitution
were brought to light by the presence of these safeguards in private
houses, and the soldiers divided rations with their temporary wards, in
many cases, until a general system of relief was organised."[2]
THE COMING OF LINCOLN