a soldier from spur to crown. In the demoralization which existed at
the Chain Bridge, in his opinion, the occasional execution of a soldier
would tend to enforce discipline, and in the end promote economy of
life. He had issued orders declaring the penalty of death for military
offences, among others that of a sentinel sleeping upon his post. His
orders were made to be obeyed. Scott was, apparently, their first
victim. It was perfectly clear that any appeal in his behalf to General
Smith would lead to nothing but loss of time.
The more I reflected upon what I was to do, the more hopeless the case
appeared. Thought was useless; I must act upon impulse, or I should not
act at all.
“Come,” I said, “there is only one man on earth who can save your
comrade. Fortunately, he is the best man on the continent. We will go
to President Lincoln.”
I went swiftly out of the Treasury over to the White House, and up the
stairway to the little office where the President was writing. The
boys followed in a procession. I did not give the thought time to get
any hold on me that I, an officer of the government, was committing an
impropriety in thus rushing a matter upon the President’s attention.
The President was the first to speak.
“What is this?” he asked. “An expedition to kidnap somebody, or to get
another brigadier appointed, or for a furlough to go home to vote?
I cannot do it, gentlemen. Brigadiers are thicker than drum-majors,
and I couldn’t get a furlough for myself if I asked it from the War
Department.”
There was hope in the tone in which he spoke. I went straight to my
point. “Mr. President,” I said, “these men want nothing for themselves.
They are Green Mountain boys of the Third Vermont, who have come to
stay as long as you need good soldiers. They don’t want promotion
until they earn it. But they do want something that you alone can give
them--the life of a comrade.”
“What has he done?” asked the President. “You Vermonters are not a
bad lot, generally. Has he committed murder, or mutiny, or what other
felony?”
“Tell him,” I whispered to the Captain.
“I cannot! I cannot! I should stammer like a fool! You can do it
better!”
“Captain,” I said, pushing him forward, “Scott’s life depends on you.
You must tell the President the story. I know it only from hearsay.”
He commenced like the man by the Sea of Galilee, who had an impediment
in his speech; but very soon the string of his tongue was loosened,
and he spoke plainly. As the words burst from his lips they stirred
my own blood. He gave a graphic account of the whole story, and ended
by saying, “He is as brave a boy as there is in your army, sir. Scott
is no coward. Our mountains breed no cowards. They are the homes of
thirty thousand men who voted for Abraham Lincoln. They will not be
able to see that the best thing to be done with William Scott will be
to shoot him like a traitor and bury him like a dog! Oh, Mr. Lincoln,
can you?”
“No, I can’t!” exclaimed the President. It was one of the moments when
his countenance became such a remarkable study. It had become very
earnest as the Captain rose with his subject; then it took on that
melancholy expression which, later in his life, became so infinitely
touching. I thought I could detect a mist in the deep cavities of
his eyes. Then, in a flash, there was a total change. He smiled, and
finally broke into a hearty laugh as he asked me:
“Do your Green Mountain boys fight as well as they talk? If they do, I
don’t wonder at the legends about Ethan Allen.” Then his face softened
as he said: “But what can I do? What do you expect me to do? As you
know, I have not much influence with the departments?”
“I have not thought the matter out,” I said. “I feel a deep interest
in saving young Scott’s life. I think I knew the boy’s father. It
is useless to apply to General Smith. An application to Secretary
Stanton would only be referred to General Smith. The only thing to
be done was to apply to you. It seems to me that, if you would sign
an order suspending Scott’s execution until his friends can have his
case examined, I might carry it to the War Department, and so insure
the delivery of the order to General Smith to-day, through the regular
channels of the War Office.”
“No! I do not think that course would be safe. You do not know these
officers of the regular army. They are a law unto themselves. They
sincerely think that it is a good policy occasionally to shoot a
soldier. I can see it where a soldier deserts or commits a crime, but I
cannot in such a case as Scott’s. They say that I am always interfering
with the discipline of the army and being cruel to the soldiers. Well,
I can’t help it, so I shall have to go right on doing wrong. I do not
think an honest, brave soldier, conscious of no crime but sleeping
when he was weary, ought to be shot or hung. The country has better
uses for him.
“Captain,” continued the President, “your boy shall not be shot--that
is, not to-morrow, nor until I know more about his case.” To me he
said, “I will have to attend to this matter myself. I have for some
time intended to go up to the Chain Bridge. I will do so to-day. I
shall then know that there is no mistake in suspending the execution.”
I remarked that he was undertaking a burden which we had no right to
impose; that it was asking too much of the President in behalf of a
private soldier.
“Scott’s life is as valuable to him as that of any person in the land,”
he said. “You remember the remark of a Scotchman about the head of a
nobleman who was decapitated. ‘It was a small matter of a head, but it
was valuable to him, poor fellow, for it was the only one he had.’”
I saw that remonstrance was vain. I suppressed the rising gratitude of
the soldiers, and we took our leave. Two members of “the committee”
remained to watch events in the city, while the others returned to
carry the news of their success to Scott and to the camp. Later in
the day the two members reported that the President had started in
the direction of the camp; that their work here was ended, and they
proposed to return to their quarters.
Within a day or two the newspapers reported that a soldier, sentenced
to be shot for sleeping on his post, had been pardoned by the President
and returned to his regiment. Other duties pressed me, and it was
December before I heard anything further from Scott. Then another
elderly soldier of the same company, whose health had failed and who
was arranging for his own discharge, called upon me, and I made inquiry
about Scott. The soldier gave an enthusiastic account of him. He was
in splendid health, was very athletic, popular with everybody, and had
the reputation of being the best all-around soldier in the company, if
not in the regiment. His mate was the elderly soldier who had visited
me with the party in September, who would be able to tell me all about
him. To him I sent a message, asking him to see me when he was next in
the city. His name was Ellis or Evans.
Not long afterwards he called at my office, and, as his leave
permitted, I kept him overnight at my house, and gathered from him
the following facts about Scott. He said that, as we supposed, the
President went to the camp, and had a long conversation with Scott,
at the end of which he was sent back to his company a free man. The
President had given him a paper, which he preserved very carefully,
which was supposed to be his discharge from the sentence. A regular
order for his pardon had been read in the presence of the regiment,
signed by General McClellan, but every one knew that his life had been
saved by the President.
From that day Scott was the most industrious man in the company. He was
always at work, generally helping some other soldier. His arms and his
dress were neat and cleanly; he took charge of policing the company’s
quarters; was never absent at roll-call, unless he was sent away, and
always on hand if there was any work to be done. He was very strong,
and practised feats of strength until he could pick up a man lying on
the ground and carry him away on his shoulders. He was of great use
in the hospital, and in all the serious cases sought employment as a
nurse, because it trained him in night-work and keeping awake at night.
He soon attracted attention. He was offered promotion, which, for some
reason, he declined.
It was a long time before he would speak of his interview with Mr.
Lincoln. One night, when he had received a long letter from home, Scott
opened his heart, and told Evans the story.
Scott said: “The President was the kindest man I had ever seen; I knew
him at once by a Lincoln medal I had long worn. I was scared at first,
for I had never before talked with a great man. But Mr. Lincoln was so
easy with me, so gentle, that I soon forgot my fright. He asked me all
about the people at home, the neighbors, the farm, and where I went
to school, and who my schoolmates were. Then he asked me about mother,
and how she looked, and I was glad I could take her photograph from
my bosom and show it to him. He said how thankful I ought to be that
my mother still lived, and how, if he was in my place, he would try
to make her a proud mother, and never cause her a sorrow or a tear. I
cannot remember it all, but every word was so kind.
“He had said nothing yet about that dreadful next morning. I thought
it must be that he was so kind-hearted that he didn’t like to speak
of it. But why did he say so much about my mother, and my not causing
her a sorrow or a tear when I knew that I must die the next morning?
But I supposed that was something that would have to go unexplained,
and so I determined to brace up and tell him that I did not feel a bit
guilty, and ask him wouldn’t he fix it so that the firing-party would
not be from our regiment! That was going to be the hardest of all--to
die by the hands of my comrades. Just as I was going to ask him this
favor, he stood up, and he says to me, ‘My boy, stand up here and look
me in the face.’ I did as he bade me. ‘My boy,’ he said, ‘you are not
going to be shot to-morrow. I believe you when you tell me that you
could not keep awake. I am going to trust you, and send you back to
your regiment. But I have been put to a good deal of trouble on your
account. I have had to come up here from Washington when I have got a
great deal to do; and what I want to know is, how are you going to pay
my bill?’ There was a big lump in my throat; I could scarcely speak. I
had expected to die, you see, and had kind of got used to thinking that
way. To have it all changed in a minute! But I got it crowded down, and
managed to say, ‘I am grateful, Mr. Lincoln! I hope I am as grateful
as ever a man can be to you for saving my life. But it comes upon me
sudden and unexpected like. I didn’t lay out for it at all. But there
is some way to pay you, and I will find it after a little. There is
the bounty in the savings-bank. I guess we could borrow some money on
the mortgage of the farm. There is my pay, and if you will wait until
pay-day I am sure the boys will help, so I think we can make it up, if
it isn’t more than five or six hundred dollars,’ ‘But it is a great
deal more than that,’ he said. Then I said I didn’t just see how, but I
was sure I would find some way--if I lived.
“Then Mr. Lincoln put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my face
as if he was sorry, and said: ‘My boy, my bill is a very large one.
Your friends cannot pay it, nor your bounty, nor the farm, nor all
your comrades! There is only one man in all the world who can pay it,
and his name is William Scott! If from this day William Scott does his
duty, so that, if I were there when he comes to die, he could look me
in the face as he does now, and say, I have kept my promise, and I have
done my duty as a soldier, then my debt will be paid. Will you make
that promise, and try to keep it?’
“I said I would make the promise, and, with God’s help, I would keep
it. I could not say any more. I wanted to tell him how hard I would
try to do all he wanted; but the words would not come, so I had to let
it all go unsaid. He went away, out of my sight forever. I know I shall
never see him again; but may God forget me if I ever forget his kind
words or my promise.”
This was the end of the story of Evans, who got his discharge, and
went home at the close of the year. I heard from Scott occasionally
afterwards. He was gaining a wonderful reputation as an athlete. He
was the strongest man in the regiment. The regiment was engaged in
two or three reconnoissances in force, in which he performed the most
exposed service with singular bravery. If any man was in trouble, Scott
was his good Samaritan; if any soldier was sick, Scott was his nurse.
He was ready to volunteer for any extra service or labor; he had done
some difficult and useful scouting. He still refused promotion, saying
that he had done nothing worthy of it. The final result was that he was
the general favorite of all his comrades, the most popular man in the
regiment, and modest, unassuming, and unspoiled by his success.
II
The next scene in this drama opens on the Peninsula, between the York
and the James rivers, in March, 1862. The sluggish Warwick River runs
from its source, near Yorktown, across the Peninsula to its discharge.
It formed at that time a line of defence, which had been fortified
by General Magruder, and was held by him with a force of some twelve
thousand Confederates. Yorktown was an important position for the
Confederates.
On the 15th of April the division of General Smith was ordered to stop
the enemy’s work on the entrenchments at Lee’s Mills, the strongest
position on the Warwick River. His force consisted of the Vermont
brigade of five regiments, and three batteries of artillery. After a
lively skirmish, which occupied the greater part of the forenoon, this
order was executed, and should have ended the movement.
But about noon General McClellan with his staff, including the French
princes, came upon the scene, and ordered General Smith to assault
and capture the rebel works on the opposite bank. Some discretion was
given to General Smith, who was directed not to bring on a general
engagement, but to withdraw his men if he found the defence too strong
to be overcome. This discretion cost many lives when the moment came
for its exercise.
General Smith disposed his forces for the assault, which was made
by Companies D, E, F, and K of the Third Vermont Regiment, covered
by the artillery, with the Vermont Brigade in reserve. About four
o’clock in the afternoon the charge was ordered. Unclasping their
belts, and holding their guns and cartridge-boxes above their heads,
the Vermonters dashed into and across the stream at Dam Number One,
the strongest position in the Confederate line, and cleared out the
rifle-pits. But the earthworks were held by an overwhelming force of
rebels, and proved impregnable. After a gallant attack upon the works
the Vermonters were repulsed, and were ordered to retire across the
river. They retreated under a heavy fire, leaving nearly half their
number dead or wounded in the river and on the opposite shore.
Every member of these four companies was a brave man. But all the
eye-witnesses agreed that among those who in this, their first hard
battle, faced death without blenching, there was none braver or more
efficient than William Scott, of Company K, debtor for his own life
to President Lincoln. He was almost the first to reach the south bank
of the river, the first in the rifle-pits, and the last to retreat.
He recrossed the river with a wounded officer on his back; he carried
him to a place of safety, and returned to assist his comrades, who did
not agree on the number of wounded men saved by him from drowning or
capture, but all agreed that he had carried the last wounded man from
the south bank, and was nearly across the stream, when the fire of the
rebels was concentrated upon him; he staggered with his living burden
to the shore and fell.
An account of the closing scene in the life of William Scott was given
me by a wounded comrade, as he lay upon his cot in a hospital tent,
near Columbia College, in Washington, after the retreat of the army
from the Peninsula. “He was all shot to pieces,” said private H. “We
carried him back, out of the line of fire, and laid him on the grass to
die. His body was shot through and through, and the blood was pouring
from his many wounds. But his strength was great, and such a powerful
man was hard to kill. The surgeons checked the flow of blood--they
said he had rallied from the shock; we laid him on a cot in a hospital
tent, and the boys crowded around him, until the doctors said they
must leave if he was to have any chance at all. We all knew he must
die. We dropped on to the ground wherever we could, and fell into a
broken slumber--wounded and well side by side. Just at daylight the
word was passed that Scott wanted to see us all. We went into his tent
and stood around his cot. His face was bright and his voice cheerful.
‘Boys,’ he said, ‘I shall never see another battle. I supposed this
would be my last. I haven’t much to say. You all know what you can
tell them at home about me. I have _tried_ to do the right thing! I am
almost certain you will all say _that_.’ Then while his strength was
failing, his life ebbing away, and we looked to see his voice sink into
a whisper, his face lighted up and his voice came out natural and clear
as he said: ‘If any of you ever have the chance, I wish you would tell
President Lincoln that I have never forgotten the kind words he said
to me at the Chain Bridge--that I have tried to be a good soldier and
true to the flag--that I should have paid my whole debt to him if I had
lived; and that now, when I know that I am dying, I think of his kind
face and thank him again, because he gave me the chance to fall like a
soldier in battle, and not like a coward by the hands of my comrades.’
“His face, as he uttered these words, was that of a happy man. Not a
groan or an expression of pain, not a word of complaint or regret from
his lips. ‘Good-bye, boys,’ he said, cheerily. Then he closed his own
eyes, crossed his hands on his breast, and--and--that was all. His face
was at rest, and we all said it was beautiful. Strong men stood around
his bed; they had seen their comrades fall, and had been very near to
death themselves: such men are accustomed to control their feelings,
but now they wept like children. One only spoke, as if to himself,
‘Thank God, I know now how a brave man dies!’
“Scott would have been satisfied to rest in the same grave with his
comrades,” the wounded soldier continued. “But we wanted to know where
he lay. There was a small grove of cherry-trees just in the rear of the
camp, with a noble oak in its centre. At the foot of this oak we dug
his grave. There we laid him, with his empty rifle and accoutrements
by his side. Deep into the oak we cut the initials, W. S., and under
it the words, ‘A brave soldier.’ Our chaplain said a short prayer. We
fired a volley over his grave. Will you carry his last message to the
President?” I answered, “Yes.”
Some days passed before I again met the President. When I saw him I
asked if he remembered William Scott?
“Of Company K, Third Vermont Volunteers?” he answered. “Certainly I do.
He was the boy that Baldy Smith wanted to shoot at the Chain Bridge.
What about William Scott?”
“He is dead. He was killed on the Peninsula,” I answered. “I have a
message from him for you, which I have promised one of his comrades to
deliver.”
A look of tenderness swept over his face as he exclaimed, “Poor boy!
Poor boy! And so he is dead. And he sent me a message! Well, I think I
will not have it now. I will come and see you.”
He kept his promise. Before many days he made one of his welcome visits
to my office. He said he had come to hear Scott’s message. I gave it
as nearly as possible in Scott’s own words. Mr. Lincoln had perfect
control of his own countenance; when he chose, he could make it a
blank; when he did not care to control it, his was the most readable
of speaking human faces. He drew out from me all I knew about Scott and
about the people among whom he lived. When I spoke of the intensity of
their sympathies, especially in sorrow and trouble, as a characteristic
trait of mountaineers, he interrupted me and said, “It is equally
common on the prairies. It is the privilege of the poor. I know all
about it from experience, and I hope I have my full share of it. Yes, I
can sympathize with sorrow.”
“Mr. President,” I said, “I have never ceased to reproach myself for
thrusting Scott’s case so unceremoniously before you--for causing you
to take so much trouble for a private soldier. But I gave way to an
impulse; I could not endure the thought that Scott should be shot. He
was a fellow-Vermonter, and I knew there was no other way to save his
life.”
“I advise you always to yield to such impulses,” he said. “You did me
as great a favor as the boy. It was a new experience for me--a study
that was interesting, though I have had more to do with people of his
class than any other. Did you know that Scott and I had a long visit?
I was much interested in the boy. I am truly sorry that he is dead, for
he was a good boy--too good a boy to be shot for obeying nature. I am
glad I interfered.”
“Mr. Lincoln, I wish your treatment of this matter could be written
into history.”
“Tut, tut!” he broke in; “none of that. By-the-way, do you remember
what Jeanie Deans said to Queen Caroline when the Duke of Argyle
procured her an opportunity to beg for her sister’s life?”
“I remember the incident well, but not the language.”
“I remember both. This is the paragraph in point: ‘It is not when we
sleep soft and wake merrily ourselves that we think on other people’s
sufferings. Our hearts are waxed light within us then, and we are for
righting our ain wrangs and fighting our ain battles. But when the hour
of trouble comes to the mind or to the body--and when the hour of death
comes, that comes to high and low--oh, then it isna what we hae dune
for oursells, but what we hae dune for others, that we think on maist
pleasantly. And the thoughts that ye hae intervened to spare the puir
thing’s life will be sweeter in that hour, come when it may, than if a
word of your mouth could hang the whole Porteous mob at the tail of ae
tow.’”
X
THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE “MONITOR” AND “MERRIMAC”
_Told by Captain Worden and Lieutenant Greene of the “Monitor”_
Some weeks after the historic battle between the _Monitor_ and the
_Merrimac_ in Hampton Roads, on March 9, 1862, the former vessel came
to the Washington Navy-yard unchanged, in the same condition as when
she discharged her parting shot at the _Merrimac_. There she lay until
her heroic commander had so far recovered from his injuries as to be
able to rejoin his vessel. All leaves of absence had been revoked,
the absentees had returned, and were ready to welcome their Captain.
President Lincoln, Captain Fox, and a limited number of Captain
Worden’s personal friends had been invited to his informal reception.
Lieutenant Greene received the President and the guests. He was a boy
in years--not too young to volunteer, however, when volunteers were
scarce, and to fight the _Merrimac_ during the last half of the battle,
after the Captain was disabled.
The President and the other guests stood on the deck, near the turret.
The men were formed in lines, with their officers a little in advance,
when Captain Worden ascended the gangway. The heavy guns in the
navy-yard began firing the customary salute when he stepped upon the
deck. One side of his face was permanently blackened by the powder shot
into it from the muzzle of a cannon carrying a shell of one hundred
pounds’ weight, discharged less than twenty yards away. The President
advanced to welcome him, and introduced him to the few strangers
present. The officers and men passed in review and were dismissed. Then
there was a scene worth witnessing. The old tars swarmed around their
loved captain, they grasped his hand, crowded to touch him, thanked
God for his recovery and return, and invoked blessings upon his head
in the name of all the saints in the calendar. He called them by their
names, had a pleasant word for each of them, and for a few moments we
looked upon an exhibition of a species of affection that could only
have been the product of a common danger.