The story of Colour-Sergeant Bates’s march through England to
prove Anglo-American goodwill--Start from Gretna--The dove of
peace.
An ephemeral celebrity of a bygone day, who fittingly comes into the
picture at the present time--for we are still dealing with events that
happened in the seventies--was Colour-Sergeant Gilbert H. Bates, of the
24th Massachusetts (U. S. Artillery) Regiment.
[Illustration: COLOR-SERGEANT GILBERT H. BATES OF THE 24TH MASSACHUSETTS
(U. S. ARTILLERY) REGIMENT
His famous pilgrimage, in November, 1872, from Gretna Green to London,
bearing aloft a large American flag, brought forth striking testimony
to the undercurrent of cordiality in England for all things American.
Photographed from the wax model at Madame Tussaud’s.]
This gallant soldier of the Federal Army, after carrying the
Star-spangled Banner through the Southern States of America to prove that
the war had not killed the respect felt for the national flag, crossed
the Atlantic, in fulfilment of a wager, and bore the Stars and Stripes
from Gretna Green to London, amid most enthusiastic scenes, demonstrating
that Bates was right when he insisted that John Bull and Uncle Sam were
the best of friends at heart.
Mr. Joseph Tussaud modelled a portrait of the sergeant, who had an
honoured place in the Exhibition for several years.
Bates was a patriotic American who had a firm belief in the friendship of
the English people for their American brethren.
For 1,500 miles through States whose streets had been stained with the
blood of civil carnage he had marched with the national flag to the
strains of patriotic music, an eloquent tribute to his countrymen’s
deep-rooted love of peace. His passage was a triumphant success, and the
exploit is handed down to posterity in Captain Mayne Reid’s stirring poem
“From Vicksburg to the Sea,” the first of its five verses being:
Bear on the banner, soldier bold!
How Southern hearts must thrill
To see the flag, so loved of all,
Waving above them still!
What chords ’twill touch, what echoes wake,
Of that far truer time!
Who knows but it the spell may break
That maddened them to crime.
This was remotely the origin of Bates’s English expedition. Calumny
was rife in the States. No theme had been so often discussed for the
two years then past as that of the feeling of John Bull towards Uncle
Sam. The malicious craft of certain politicians had led them to foster
elements of hatred towards the Old Country, and a corrupt section of the
Press had lent itself to the unworthy task of exaggerating trifles and
distorting facts to suit the fancies of gullible readers.
It was in the course of one such discussion as to the feeling of the
English towards Americans that this lover of concord was led to make a
wager of 100 dollars against 1,000 dollars that the people of England
would not insult the flag of America, but would welcome it heartily
wherever it should be borne by an American soldier. Not a few of his
compatriots were incredulous of his success, and they predicted that he
would miserably fail; while one said, “I bet he don’t travel twelve miles
before he sets face homeward and leaves his bean-pole in the custody of
some parish beadle.”
The gallant sergeant was determined and confident, however, and, taking
passage in the Anchor liner _Europa_, he crossed the Atlantic.
Bates was a small but well-built man, 5 feet 7½ inches in height,
square-shouldered and square-headed, clean shaven, with clear grey eyes,
dark hair, and swarthy skin. His age was thirty-four, and he wore the
uniform of a sergeant of the Federal Army. He is described as modest,
intelligent, well-informed, and a very good specimen of the unassuming,
matter-of-fact, and practical Yankee.
The flag he carried was from a piece of army bunting from the
headquarters of General Sheridan. It was of regulation size, 6 feet by
6½ feet, and the hickory staff measured 9 feet. Before he left he was
assured by a Member of Parliament in Chicago that as the Americans had
honoured the English Prince when he visited that country, the English
people, in return, would honour the American “prince”--which was their
flag. And so it turned out.
On the 5th of November, 1872--Guy Fawkes Day and the anniversary of
the Battle of Inkerman--Sergeant Bates left Edinburgh for Gretna
Green, that romantic spot at the southern extremity of Scotland. It
was with difficulty that he managed to leave the northern city without
unfurling the flag, as his Scottish friends felt that they should have
an opportunity of testifying their good feelings to the banner which
waved over so many of their kindred in homes beyond the Atlantic. But his
mission had been planned, and he had decided to begin his march from the
border of England itself.
With no quiver of fear and with a heart full of gladness, he stood upon
Sark Bridge and, uncovering his head, gave the Star-spangled Banner to
the breeze. A few merry rustics greeted him with cheers, and the historic
march was begun. The country before him was England, the mother-country,
the home of the English language, the freest and most peaceful country in
Europe.
He reached Carlisle that evening without anything more important
happening than a rigid cross-examination by an excited old woman as to
whether he was heralding a Fenian invasion, and an anxious inquiry from a
little boy as to when the circus would arrive.
At the Bush Hotel at Carlisle a party of commercial travellers gave him
a right hearty British welcome, and this henceforth became the order of
the day at whatever town or village he put in an appearance. News of
his coming preceded him, and his progress was one continuous ovation,
culminating in a veritable furore when he reached his journey’s end.
Through Penrith and Shap, where he was cheered by the miners, who had
sent men from the quarries to watch for his approach, he made his way to
Kendal, where, at a dinner given in his honour, he announced that he
had written to cancel the wager he had made. He did this in token of the
purity of his motives, and to prove that he was not actuated by mercenary
considerations.
From Kendal he proceeded to Lancaster, which city he entered followed by
an enormous crowd, a similar concourse escorting him to the outskirts on
his departure.
Garstang, between Lancaster and Preston, at that time enjoyed the
peculiar distinction of having a Mayor and capital burgesses without its
having been constituted a borough. Here he was entertained at a sumptuous
repast, and the streets were full of people, the church scholars, drawn
up in line, cheering the flag and its bearer as they passed.
The streets of Preston were lined with spectators; at Chorley cheers were
given for the Queen and President Grant; and at Bolton the flag-bearer
was presented with a pair of clogs, and given a live turtle-dove to take
back with him to the American President.
He was almost carried by an eager, applauding crowd along Bradshawgate
on his way to Manchester, and the _Bolton Evening News_ of the 14th of
November, 1872, records that “there was more hand-shaking than we have
ever seen bestowed on any person. Far from insult, every respect was
shown to the flag of the great Republic, and,” the newspaper facetiously
adds, “if the bearer is rewarded all along his journey as he was at
Farnworth, his pockets will be filled with the metal that makes the mare
to go.”