SUNSHINE AND STORM
When the sun rose over Gettysburg on the second day of July, the Union
army, rushing breathlessly through the night to the rescue of its
defeated advance corps, had reached the heights beyond the town. Before
Longstreet had attempted to obey Lee's command to take these hills,
General Meade's blue host had reached them and were entrenching
themselves.
The Confederate Commander discovered that in the death of Jackson, he
had lost his right arm.
It was one o'clock before Longstreet moved to the attack, hurling his
columns in reckless daring against these bristling heights. When
darkness drew its kindly veil over the scene, Lee's army had driven
General Sickles from his chosen position to his second line of defense
on the hill behind, gained a foothold in the famous Devil's Den at the
base of the Round Tops, broken the lines of the Union right and held
their fortifications on Culp's Hill.
The day had been one of frightful slaughter.
The Union losses in the two days had reached the appalling total of more
than twenty thousand men. Lee had lost fifteen thousand.
The brilliant July moon rose and flooded this field of blood and death
with silent glory. From every nook and corner, from every shadow and
across every open space, through the hot breath of the night, came the
moans of thousands, and louder than all the long agonizing cries for
water. Many a man in grey crawled over the ragged rocks to press his
canteen to the lips of his dying enemy in blue, and many a boy in blue
did as much for the man in grey.
Fifteen thousand wounded men lay there through the long black hours.
At ten o'clock a wounded Christian soldier began to sing one of the old,
sweet hymns of faith, whose words have come ringing down the ages wet
with tears and winged with human hopes. In five minutes ten thousand
voices of blue and grey, some of them quivering with the agony of death,
had joined. For two hours the woods and hills rang with the songs of
these wounded men.
All through this pitiful music the Confederates were massing their
artillery on Seminary Ridge, replacing their wounded horses and
refilling their ammunition chests.
The Union army were burrowing like moles and planting their terrible
batteries on the brows of the hills beyond the town.
At Lee's council of war that night Longstreet advised his withdrawal
from Gettysburg into a more favorable position in the mountains. But the
Confederate Commander, reinforced now by the arrival of Pickett's
division of fifteen thousand men and Stuart's cavalry, determined to
renew the battle.
At the first grey streak of dawn on the 3rd the Federal guns roared
their challenge to the Confederate forces which had captured their
entrenchments on Culp's Hill. Seven terrible hours of bombardment,
charge and counter charge followed until every foot of space had claimed
its toll of dead, before the Confederates yielded the Hill.
At noon there was an ominous lull in the battle. At one o'clock a puff
of smoke from Seminary Ridge was followed by a dull roar. The signal gun
had pealed its call of death to thousands. For two miles along the crest
of this Ridge the Confederates had planted one hundred and fifty guns.
Two miles of smoke-wreathed flame suddenly leaped from those hills in a
single fiery breath.
The longer line of big Federal guns on Seminary Ridge were silent for a
few minutes and then answered gun for gun until the heavens were
transformed into a roaring hell of bursting, screaming, flaming shells.
For two hours the earth trembled beneath the shock of these volcanoes,
and then the two storms died slowly away and the smoke began to lift.
An ominous sign. The grey infantry were deploying in line under Pickett
to charge the heights of Cemetery Ridge. Fifteen thousand gallant men
against an impregnable hill held by seventy thousand intrenched
soldiers, backed by the deadliest and most powerful artillery.
They swept now into the field before the Heights, their bands playing as
if on parade--their grey ranks dressed on their colors. Down the slope
across the plain and up the hill the waves rolled, their thinning ranks
closing the wide gaps torn each moment by the fiery sleet of iron and
lead.
A handful of them lived to reach the Union lines on those heights.
Armistead, with a hundred men, broke through and lifted his battle flag
for a moment over a Federal battery, and fell mortally wounded.
And then the shattered grey wave broke into a spray of blood and slowly
ebbed down the hill. The battle of Gettysburg had ended.
For the first time the blue Army of the Potomac had won a genuine
victory. It had been gained at a frightful cost, but no price was too
high to pay for such a victory. It had saved the Capital of the Nation.
The Union army had lost twenty-three thousand men, the Confederate
twenty thousand. Meade had lost seventeen of his generals, and Lee,
fourteen.
When the thrilling news from the front reached Washington on July 4th,
the President lifted his big hands above his head and cried to the crowd
of excited men who thronged the Executive office:
"Unto God we give all the praise!"
None of those present knew the soul significance of that sentence as it
fell from his trembling lips. He seated himself at his desk and quickly
wrote a brief proclamation of thanks to Almighty God, which he
telegraphed to the Governor of each Union State, requesting them to
repeat it to their people.
While the North was still quivering with joy over the turn of the tide
at Gettysburg, Gideon Welles, the Secretary of the Navy, hurried into
the President's office and handed him a dispatch from the gunboat under
Admiral Porter coöperating with General Grant announcing the fall of
Vicksburg, the surrender of thirty-five thousand Confederate soldiers of
its garrison, and the opening of the Mississippi River to the Gulf of
Mexico.
The President seized his hat, his dark face shining with joy:
"I will telegraph the news to General Meade myself!"
He stopped suddenly and threw his long arms around Welles:
"What can we do for the Secretary of the Navy for this glorious
intelligence? He is always giving us good news. I cannot tell you my joy
over this result. It is great, Mr. Welles, it is great!"
With the eagerness of a boy he rushed to the telegraph office and sent
the message to Meade over his own signature.
For the first time in dreary months the sun had burst for a moment
through the clouds that had hung in endless gloom over the White House.
The sorrowful eyes were shining with new hope. The President felt sure
that General Lee could never succeed in leading his shattered army back
into Virginia. He had lost twenty thousand men out of his sixty-two
thousand--while Meade was still in command of a grand army of eighty-two
thousand soldiers flushed with victory. The Potomac River was in flood
and the Confederate army was on its banks unable to recross.
It was a moral certainty that the heroic Commander who had saved the
Capital at Gettysburg could, with his eighty-two thousand men, capture
or crush Lee's remaining force, caught in this trap by the swollen
river, and end the war.
The men who crowded into the Executive office the day after the news of
Vicksburg, found the Chief Magistrate in high spirits. Among the cases
of deserters, court-martialed and ordered to be shot, he was surprised
to find a negro soldier bearing the remarkable name of Julius Cæsar
Thornton. John Vaughan had telegraphed the President asking his
interference with the execution of this cruel edict.
The President was deeply interested. It was the beginning of the use of
negro troops. He had consented to their employment with reluctance, but
they were proving their worth to the army, both in battle and in the
work of garrisons.
Julius was brought from prison for an interview with the Chief
Magistrate.
Stanton had sternly demanded the enforcement of the strictest military
discipline as the only way to make these black troops of any real
service to the Government. He asked that an example be made of Julius by
sending him back to the army to be publicly shot before the assembled
men of his race. He was convicted of two capital offenses. He had been
caught in Washington shamelessly flaunting the uniform he had disgraced.
Julius faced the President with an humble salute and a broad grin. The
black man liked the looks of his judge and he threw off all
embarrassment his situation had produced with the first glance at the
kindly eyes gazing at him over the rims of those spectacles.
"Well, Julius Cæsar Thornton, this is a serious charge they have lodged
against you?"
"Yassah, dat's what dey say."
"You went forth like a man to fight for your country, didn't you?"
"Na, sah!"
"How'd you get there?"
"Dey volunteered me, sah."
"Volunteered you, did they?" the President laughed.
"Yassah--dat dey did. Dey sho' volunteered me whether er no----"
"And how did it happen?"
"Dey done hit so quick, sah, I scacely know how dey did do hit. I was in
de war down in Virginia wid Marse John Vaughan--an' er low-lifed
Irishman on guard dar put me ter wuk er buryin' corpses. I hain't nebber
had no taste for corpses nohow, an' I didn't like de job--mo' specially,
sah, when one ob 'em come to ez I was pullin' him froo de dark ter de
grave----"
"Come to, did he?" the President smiled.
"Yassah--he come to all of er sudden an' kicked me! An' hit scared me
near 'bout ter death. I lit out fum dar purty quick, sah, an' go West.
An' I ain't mor'n got out dar 'fore two fellers drawed dere muskets on
me an' persuaded me ter volunteer, sah. Dey put dese here cloze on me
an' tell me dat I wuz er hero. I tell 'em dey must be some mistake 'bout
dat, but dey say no--dey know what dey wuz er doin'. Dey keep on tellin'
me dat I wuz er hero an', by golly, I 'gin ter b'lieve hit myself till
dey git me into trouble, sah."
"You were in a battle?"
Julius scratched his head and walled his eyes:
"I had er little taste ob it, sah,----"
"Well, you tried to fight, didn't you?"
"No, sah,--I run."
"Ran at the first fire?"
"Yas, _sah_! An' I'd a ran sooner ef I'd er known hit wuz comin'----"
Julius paused and broke into a jolly laugh:
"Dey git one pop at me, sah, 'fore I seed what dey wuz doin'!"
The President suppressed a laugh and gazed at Julius with severity:
"That wasn't very creditable to your courage."
"Dat ain't in my line, sah,--I'se er cook."
"Have you no regard for your reputation?"
"Dat ain't nuttin' ter me, sah, 'side er life!"
"And your life is worth more than other people's?"
"Worth er lot mo' ter me, sah."
"I'm afraid they wouldn't have missed you, Julius, if you'd been
killed."
"Na, sah, but I'd a sho missed myself an' dat's de pint wid me."
The President fixed him with a comical frown:
"It's sweet and honorable to die for one's country, Julius!"
"Yassah--dat's what I hear--but I ain't fond er sweet things--I ain't
nebber hab no taste fer 'em, sah!"
"Well, it looks like I'll have to let 'em have you, Julius, for an
example. I've tried to save you--but there doesn't seem to be any thing
to take hold of. Every time I grab you, you slip right through my
fingers. I reckon they'll have to shoot you----"
The negro broke into a hearty laugh:
"G'way fum here, Mr. President! You can't fool me, sah. I sees yer
laughin' right now way back dar in yo' eyes. You ain't gwine let 'em
shoot me. I'se too vallable a nigger fer dat. I wuz worth er thousan'
dollars 'fore de war. I sho' oughter be wuth two thousan' now. What's de
use er 'stroyin' er good piece er property lak dat? I won't be no good
ter nobody ef dey shoots me!"
The President broke down at last, leaned back in his chair and laughed
with every muscle of his long body. Julius joined him with unction.
When the laughter died away the tall figure bent over his desk and wrote
an order for the negro's release, and discharge from the army.
One of the things which had brought the President his deepest joy in the
victory of Vicksburg was not the importance of the capture of the city
and the opening of the Mississippi so much as the saving of U. S. Grant
as a commanding General.
From the capture of Fort Donelson, the eyes of the Chief Magistrate had
been fixed on this quiet fighter. And then came the disaster to his army
at Shiloh--the first day's fight a bloody and overwhelming defeat--the
second the recovery of the ground lost and the death of Albert Sydney
Johnston, his brilliant Confederate opponent.
As a matter of fact, in its results, the battle had been a crushing
disaster to the South. But Grant had lost fourteen thousand men in the
two days' carnage and it was the first great field of death the war had
produced. McClellan had not yet met Lee before Richmond. The cry against
Grant was furious and practically universal.
Senator Winter, representing the demands of Congress, literally stormed
the White House for weeks with the persistent and fierce demand for
Grant's removal.
The President shook his head doggedly:
"I can't spare this man--he fights!"
The Senator submitted the proofs that Grant was addicted to the use of
strong drink and that he was under the influence of whiskey on the
first day of the battle of Shiloh.
In vain Winter stormed and threatened for an hour. The President was
adamant.
He didn't know Grant personally. But he had felt the grip of his big
personality on the men under his command and he refused to let him go.
He turned to his tormentor at last with a quizzical look in his eye:
"You know, Winter, that reminds me of a little story----"
The Senator threw up both hands with a gesture of rage. He knew what the
wily diplomat was up to.
"I won't hear it, sir," he growled. "I won't hear it. You and your
stories are sending this country to hell--it's not more than a mile from
there now!"
The sombre eyes smiled as he slowly said:
"I believe it _is_ just a mile from here to the Senate Chamber!"
The Senator faced him a moment and the two men looked at each other
tense, erect, unyielding.
"There may or may not be a grain of truth in your statements, Winter,"
the quiet voice continued, "but your personal animus against Grant is
deeper. He is a Democrat married to a Southern woman, and is a
slave-holder. You can't be fair to him. I can, I must and I will. I am
the President of all the people. The Nation needs this man. I will not
allow him to be crushed. You have my last word."
The Senator strode to the door in silence and paused:
"But you haven't mine, sir!"
The tall figure bowed and smiled.
The President found the task a greater one than he had dreamed. So
furious was the popular outcry against Grant, so dogged and persistent
was the demand for his removal he was compelled to place General Halleck
in nominal command of the district in which his army was operating until
the popular furor should subside. In this way he had kept Grant as
Second in Command at the head of his army, and Vicksburg with
thirty-five thousand prisoners was the answer the silent man in the West
had sent to his champion and protector in the White House.
The thrilling message had come at an opportune moment. The new commander
of the army of the Potomac had defeated General Lee at Gettysburg and
for an hour his name was on every lip. The President and the Nation had
taken it for granted that he would hurl his eighty-two thousand men on
Lee's army hemmed in by the impassable Potomac.
So sure of this was Stanton that he declared to the President:
"If a single regiment of Lee's army ever gets back into Virginia in an
organized condition it will prove that I am totally unfit to be
Secretary of War."
Once more the impossible happened. Lee did get back into Virginia, his
army marching with quick step and undaunted spirit, ready to fight at
any moment his rear guard came in touch with Meade's advancing hosts. He
not only crossed the Potomac with his army in perfect fighting form with
every gun he carried, but with thousands of fat cattle and four thousand
prisoners of war captured on the field of Gettysburg.
The President's day of rejoicing was brief. As Lee withdrew to his old
battle ground with his still unconquered lines of grey, the man in the
White House saw with aching heart his dream of peace fade into the
mists of even a darker night than the one through which his soul had
just passed.
Slowly but surely the desperate South began to recover from the shock of
Gettysburg and Vicksburg and filled once more her thinning battle lines.
General Lee, sorely dissatisfied with himself for his failure to win in
Pennsylvania, tendered his resignation to the Richmond Government,
asking to be relieved by a younger and abler man. As no such man lived,
Jefferson Davis declined his resignation, and he continued his
leadership with renewed faith in his genius by every man, woman and
child in the South.
General Meade, stung to desperation by the bitter disappointment of the
President and the people of the North, also tendered his resignation.
For the moment the President refused to consider it, though his eyes
were fixed with growing faith on the silent figure of Grant. One more
victory from this stolid fighter and he had found the great commander
for which he had sought in vain through blood and tears for more than
two years.
The first task to which he must turn his immediate attention was the
filling of the depleted ranks of the Northern armies. Volunteering had
ceased, the terms of the enlisted men would soon expire, and it was
absolutely necessary to enforce a draft for five hundred thousand
soldiers.
The President had been warned by the Democratic Party, at present a
powerful and aggressive minority in Congress, that such an act of
despotism would not be tolerated by a free people.
The President's answer was simple and to the point:
"The South has long since adopted force to fill her ranks. If we are to
continue this war and save the Union it is absolutely necessary, and
therefore it shall be done."
The great city of New York was the danger point. The Government had been
warned of the possibility of a revolution in the metropolis, whose
representatives in Congress had demanded the right to secede in the
beginning of the war. And yet the warning had not been taken seriously
by the War Department. No effort had been made to garrison the city
against the possibility of an armed uprising to resist the draft.
Demagogues had been haranguing the people for months, inflaming their
minds to the point of madness on the subject of this draft.
On the night before the drawing was ordered in New York the leading
speaker had swept the crowd off their feet by the daring words with
which he closed his appeal:
"We will resist this attempt of Black Republicans and Abolitionists to
force the children of the poor into the ranks they dare not enter. Will
you give any more of your sons to be food for vultures on the hills of
Virginia? Will you allow them to be torn from your firesides and driven
as dumb cattle into the mouths of Southern cannon? If you are slaves,
yes,----if you are freemen, no!"
When the lottery wheel began to turn off its fatal names at the
Government Draft Office at the corner of Forty-sixth Street and Third
Avenue on the morning of July 14th, a sullen, determined mob packed the
streets in front of the building. Among them stood hundreds of women
whose husbands, sons and brothers were listed on the spinning wheel of
black fortune.
Their voices were higher and angrier than the men's:
"This is a rich man's war--but a poor man's fight----"
"Yes, if you've got three hundred dollars you can hire a substitute from
the slums----"
"But if you happen to be a working man, you can stand up and be shot for
these cowards and sneaks!"
"Down with the draft!"
"To hell with the hirelings and their wheel!"
"Smash it----"
"Burn the building!"
A tough from the East Side waved his hand to the crowd of frenzied men
and women:
"Come on, boys,----"
With a single mighty impulse the mob surged toward the doors, and
through them. A sound of smashing glass, blows, curses. A man rushed
into the street holding the enrollment books above his head:
"Here are your names, men--the list of white slaves!"
The mob tore the sheets from his grasp and fell on them like hungry
wolves. In ten minutes the books were only scraps of paper trampled into
the filth of Third Avenue. Wherever a piece could be seen men and women
stamped and spit on it.
They smashed the wheel and furniture into kindling wood, piled it in the
middle of the room and set fire to it. No policemen or firemen were
allowed to approach. Every officer of the law, both civil and military,
had been chased and beaten and disappeared.
Half the block was in flames before the firemen could break through and
reach the burning buildings.
Down the Avenue, the maddened mob swept with resistless impulse,
jelling, cursing, shouting its defiance.
"Down with the Abolitionists!"
"Hang Horace Greeley on a sour apple tree!"
"To the _Tribune_ Office!"
Howard, a reporter of the _Tribune_, was recognized:
"Kill him!"
"Hang him!"
The mob seized the reporter, dragged him to a lamp post and were about
to put the rope around his neck when a blow from a cobblestone felled
him to the sidewalk, the blood trickling down his neck.
A man bending over his body, shouted to the crowd:
"He's dead--we'll take the body away!"
A friend helped and they carried him into a store and saved his life.
For three days and nights this mob burned and killed at will and fought
every officer of the law until the streets ran red with blood. They
burned the Negro Orphan Asylum, beat, killed or hanged every negro who
showed his face, sacked the home of Mayor Opdyke, at 79 Fifth Avenue,
and attempted to burn it. They smashed in the _Tribune_ building, gutted
part of it and would have reduced it to ashes but for the brave defense
put up by some of its men.
On the third day the announcement was made that the draft was suspended.
Five thousand troops reached the city and partly succeeded in restoring
order.
More than a thousand men had been killed and three thousand
wounded--among them many women.
The Democratic papers now boldly demanded that the draft should be
officially suspended until its constitutionality could be tested by the
courts. The State and Municipal authorities of New York appealed to the
President to suspend the draft.
He answered:
"If I suspend the draft there can be no army to continue the war and the
days of the Republic are numbered. The life of the Nation is at stake."
They begged for time, and he hesitated for a day. The victories of
Gettysburg and Vicksburg were forgotten in the grim shadow of a possible
repetition of the French Revolution on a vast scale throughout the
North. The mob had already sacked the office of the _Times_ in Troy,
broken out in Boston, and threatened Cincinnati.
The President gave the Governor of New York his final answer by sending
an army of ten thousand veterans into the city. He planted his artillery
to sweep the streets with grape and cannister, and ordered the draft to
be immediately enforced.
The new wheel was set up, and turned with bayonets. The mobs were
overawed and the ranks of the army were refilled.