VICTORY IN DEFEAT
The President had risen at daylight on the fateful Sunday morning. He
was sorry this first action must be fought on Sunday. It seemed a bad
omen. The preachers from his home town of Springfield, Illinois, had
issued a manifesto against his election without regard to their party
affiliations on account of his supposed hostility to religion. It had
hurt and stung his pride more than any single incident in the campaign.
His nature was profoundly religious. He was not a church member because
his religion had the unique quality of a personal faith which refused
from sheer honesty to square itself with the dogmas of any sect. The
preachers had not treated him fairly, but he cherished no ill will. He
knew their sterling worth to the Republic and he meant to use them in
the tremendous task before him. He had hoped the battle would not be
joined until Monday. But he knew at dawn that a clash was inevitable.
At half past ten o'clock, though keenly anxious for the first news from
the front, he was ready to accompany Mrs. Lincoln to church. The breeze
was from the South--a hot, lazy, midsummer heavy air.
The Commander-in-Chief bent his giant figure over a war map, spread on
his desk, fixed the position of each army by colored pins, studied them
a moment and quietly walked with his wife to the Presbyterian Church to
hear Dr. Gurley preach. He sat in reverent silence through the service,
his soul hovering over the distant hills.
Before midnight the panic stricken Congressmen began to drop into the
White House, each with his story of unparalleled disaster. At one
o'clock the President stood in the midst of a group of excited,
perspiring statesmen who had crowded into the executive office, the one
cool, shrewd, patient, self-possessed courageous man among them. He
reviewed their stories quietly and with no sign of excitement, to say
nothing of panic.
They marvelled at his dull intellect.
He was listening in silence, shaping the big new policy of his
administration.
He spent the entire night calmly listening to all these stories,
speaking a word of good cheer where it would be of service.
Mr. Seward entered as he had just finished a light breakfast.
The Secretary's hair was disheveled, his black string tie under his ear,
and he was taking two pinches of snuff within the time he usually took
one.
In thirty minutes the outlines of his message to Congress and his new
proclamation were determined. Mr. Seward left with new courage and a
growing sense of reliance on the wisdom, courage and intellectual power
of the Chief he had thought to supplant without a struggle.
At eight o'clock the man with a grievance made his first appearance. His
wrath was past the boiling point, in spite of the fact that his
handsome uniform was still wet from the night's wild ride.
He went straight to the point. He was a volunteer patriot of high
standing in his community. As a citizen of the Republic, wearing its
uniform, he represented its dignity and power. He had been grossly
insulted by a military martinet from West Point and he proposed to test
the question whether an American citizen had any rights such men must
respect.
The President lifted his calm, deep eyes to the flushed angry face,
glanced at the gold marks of his rank, and said:
"What can I do for you, Captain?"
"I've come to ask you, Mr. President," he began with subdued intensity,
"whether a volunteer officer of this country, a man of culture and
position, is to be treated as a dog or a human being?"
The quiet man at the desk slipped his glasses from his ears, polished
them with his handkerchief, readjusted them, and looked up again with
kindly interest:
"What's the trouble?"
"A discussion arose in our regiment on the day we were ordered into
battle over the expiration of our enlistment. I held, as a lawyer, sir,
that every day of rotten manual labor we had faithfully performed for
our country should be counted in our three months military service. Our
time had expired and I demanded that we be discharged then and
there----"
"On the eve of a battle?"
"Certainly, sir--what had that to do with our rights? We could have
reënlisted on the spot. I refused to take orders from the upstart who
commanded our brigade."
"And what happened?" the calm voice asked.
"He dared to threaten my life, sir!"
"Who was he?"
"A Colonel in command of our brigade--named Sherman!"
"William Tecumseh Sherman?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did he say to you?"
"Swore that if I moved an inch to leave his command he'd shoot me----"
"He said that to you?"
"Swore he'd shoot me down in my tracks like a dog!"
The President gravely rose, placed a big hand on the young officer's
shoulder and in serious, friendly tones said:
"If I were in your place, Captain, I wouldn't trust that man Sherman--I
believe he'll do it!"
The astonished volunteer looked up with a puzzled sheepish expression,
turned and shot out of the room.
The long figure dropped into a chair and doubled with laughter. He rose
and walked to his window, looking out on the trees swaying beneath the
storm, still laughing.
"They say that every cloud has its silver lining!" he laughed again.
"I'll remember that fellow Sherman."
Late in the day a report reached him of a beautiful young woman serving
refreshments without pay to the straggling, broken men.
He turned to Nicolay, his secretary:
"Get my carriage, find her, and bring her to me. I want to see her."
Betty's eyes were still red when she walked into his office.
He sprang to his feet, and with long strides met her. He grasped her
hand in both his and pressed it tenderly.
"So it's _you_!" he whispered.
Betty nodded.
"My little Cabinet comforter----"
"I'm afraid I'll be no good to-day," she faltered.
"Then I'll cheer _you_," he cried. "I just wanted to thank the woman
who's been standing behind a lemonade counter through this desolate day
giving her time, her money, and her soul to our discouraged boys----"
"And you are not discouraged?" Betty asked pathetically.
"Not by a long shot, my child! Brush those tears away. Jeffy D.'s the
man to be discouraged to-day. This will be a dearly bought victory. Mark
my word. For the South it's the glorious end of the war. While they
shout, I'll be sawing wood. It needed just this shock and humiliation to
bring the North to their senses. Watch them buckle on their armor now in
deadly earnest. The demagogues howled for a battle. They pushed us in
and they got it. Some of the Congressmen who yelled the loudest for a
march straight into Richmond without a pause even to water the horses
got tangled up in that stampede from Bull Run. They thought Jeb Stuart's
cavalry were on them and lost their lunch baskets in the scramble.
They've seen a great light. I'll get all the money I ask Congress for
and all the soldiers we need for any length of time. I've asked for four
hundred million dollars and five hundred thousand men for three years.
I shouldn't be surprised if they voted more. The people will have sense
enough to see that this defeat was exactly what they should have
expected under such conditions."
His spirit was contagious. Betty forgot her shame and fear.
"You're wonderful, Mr. President," the girl cried in rapt tones. "Now I
know that you have come into the kingdom for such a time as this."
"And so have you, my child," he answered reverently. "And so has every
brave woman who loves this Union. That's what I wanted to say to you and
thank you for your example."
Betty left the White House with a new sense of loyal inspiration. She
walked on air unconscious of the pouring rain. She paused before a
throng that blocked the sidewalk.
Some of them were bareheaded, the rain drops splashing in their faces,
apparently unconscious of anything that was happening.
She pushed her way into the crowd. They were looking at the bulletin
board of the _Daily Republican_, reading the first list of the dead and
wounded. Her heart suddenly began to pound. John Vaughan had not
reported his return. He might be lying stark and cold with the rain
beating down on his mangled body. She read each name in the list of the
dead, and drew a sigh of relief. But the last bulletin was not cheering.
It promised additional names for a later edition. Besides, the War
Department might not be relied on for reports of non-combatants. A
newspaper correspondent was not enrolled as a soldier. His death might
remain unrecorded for days.
On a sudden impulse she started to enter the office and ask if he had
returned, stopped, blushed, turned and hurried home with a new fear
mingled with a strange joy beating in her heart.