The Hon. Orlando Kellogg, of New York, was sitting in his room at his
boarding-house one evening, when one of his constituents appeared,--a
white-headed old man,--who had come to Washington in great trouble,
to seek the aid of his representative in behalf of his son. His story
was this: “The young man had formerly been very dissipated. During an
absence from home a year or two previous to the war, he enlisted in the
regular army, and, after serving six months, deserted. Returning to
his father, who knew nothing of this, he reformed his habits, and when
the war broke out, entered heart and soul into the object of raising a
regiment in his native county, and was subsequently elected one of its
officers. He had proved an efficient officer, distinguishing himself
particularly on one occasion, in a charge across a bridge, when he
was severely wounded,--his colonel being killed by his side. Shortly
after this, he came in contact with one of his old companions in the
‘regular’ service, who recognized him, and declared his purpose of
informing against him. Overwhelmed with mortification, the young man
procured a furlough and returned home, revealing the matter to his
father, and declaring his purpose never to submit to an arrest,--‘he
would die first.’” In broken tones the old man finished his statement,
saying: “Can you do anything for us, Judge?--it is a hard, hard
case!” “I will see about that,” replied the representative, putting
on his hat; “wait here until I return.” He went immediately to the
White House, and fortunately finding Mr. Lincoln alone, they sat down
together, and he repeated the old man’s story. The President made
no demonstration of particular interest until the Judge reached the
description of the charge across the bridge, and the wound received.
“Do you say,” he interrupted, “that the young man was wounded?” “Yes,”
replied the congressman, “badly.” “Then he has shed his blood for his
country,” responded Mr. Lincoln, musingly. “Kellogg,” he continued,
brightening up, “isn’t there something in Scripture about the ‘shedding
of blood’ being ‘the remission of sins?’” “Guess you are about right
there,” replied the Judge. “It is a good ‘point,’ and there is no going
behind it,” rejoined the President; and taking up his pen, another
“pardon”--this time without “oath,” condition, or reserve--was added to
the records of the War Office.
“Among a large number of persons waiting in the room to speak with
Mr. Lincoln, on a certain day in November, ’64, was a small, pale,
delicate-looking boy about thirteen years old. The President saw him
standing, looking feeble and faint, and said: ‘Come here, my boy, and
tell me what you want.’ The boy advanced, placed his hand on the arm
of the President’s chair, and with bowed head and timid accents said:
‘Mr. President, I have been a drummer in a regiment for two years,
and my colonel got angry with me and turned me off. I was taken sick,
and have been a long time in hospital. This is the first time I have
been out, and I came to see if you could not do something for me.’ The
President looked at him kindly and tenderly, and asked him where he
lived. ‘I have no home,’ answered the boy. ‘Where is your father?’ ‘He
died in the army,’ was the reply. ‘Where is your mother?’ continued the
President. ‘My mother is dead also. I have no mother, no father, no
brothers, no sisters, and,’ bursting into tears, ‘no friends--nobody
cares for me.’ Mr. Lincoln’s eyes filled with tears, and he said to
him, ‘Can’t you sell newspapers?’ ‘No,’ said the boy, ‘I am too weak;
and the surgeon of the hospital told me I must leave, and I have no
money, and no place to go to.’ The scene was wonderfully affecting. The
President drew forth a card, and addressing on it certain officials to
whom his request was law, gave special directions ‘to care for this
poor boy.’ The wan face of the little drummer lit up with a happy smile
as he received the paper, and he went away convinced that he had one
good and true friend, at least, in the person of the President.”[23]
No incident of this character related of the late President, is more
profoundly touching in its tenderness and simplicity than that given
to me the last evening I passed at the White House, in the office of
the private secretary, by a resident of Washington,[24] who witnessed
the scene.
“I was waiting my turn to speak to the President one day, some three or
four weeks since,” said Mr. M----, “when my attention was attracted by
the sad patient face of a woman advanced in life, who in a faded hood
and shawl was among the applicants for an interview.
“Presently Mr. Lincoln turned to her, saying in his accustomed manner,
‘Well, my good woman, what can I do for you this morning?’ ‘Mr.
President,’ said she, ‘my husband and three sons all went into the
army. My husband was killed in the fight at ----. I get along very
badly since then, living all alone, and I thought I would come and ask
you to release to me my oldest son.’ Mr. Lincoln looked into her face
a moment, and in his kindest accents responded, ‘Certainly! certainly!
If you have given us _all_, and your prop has been taken away, you
are justly entitled to one of your boys!’ He immediately made out an
order discharging the young man, which the woman took, and thanking him
gratefully, went away.
“I had forgotten the circumstance,” continued M----, “till last week,
when happening to be here again, who should come in but the same
woman. It appeared that she had gone herself to the front, with the
President’s order, and found the son she was in search of had been
mortally wounded in a recent engagement, and taken to a hospital. She
found the hospital, but the boy was dead, or died while she was there.
The surgeon in charge made a memorandum of the facts upon the back of
the President’s order, and almost broken-hearted, the poor woman had
found her way again into Mr. Lincoln’s presence. He was much affected
by her appearance and story, and said: ‘I know what you wish me to do
now, and I shall do it without your asking; I shall release to you
your second son.’ Upon this, he took up his pen and commenced writing
the order. While he was writing the poor woman stood by his side, the
tears running down her face, and passed her hand softly over his head,
stroking his rough hair, as I have seen a fond mother caress a son. By
the time he had finished writing, his own heart and eyes were full. He
handed her the paper: ‘Now,’ said he, ‘_you_ have one and _I_ one of
the other two left: that is no more than right.’ She took the paper,
and reverently placing her hand again upon his head, the tears still
upon her cheeks, said: ‘The Lord bless you, Mr. Lincoln. May you live a
thousand years, and may you always be the head of this great nation!’”