RECOLLECTIONS OF LINCOLN
“We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies.
Though passion may have strained, it must not break our
bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory stretching
from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living
heart and hearthstone, all over this broad land, will
yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched,
as surely they will be by the better angels of our
nature.”--Abraham Lincoln.
During the last year of the war I was still working for the “Boys”
at City Point Depot Field Hospital, Virginia, half a mile from
the headquarters of the United States Armies in the field, at
the junction of the Appomattox and James Rivers, when the day of
the second inaugural drew near. This caused a welcome ripple of
excitement to spread over the daily monotony of discipline in
hospital camp life. The fearless President was to stand once more
before the people to take the oath to uphold the institutions and
principles of his country, despite the state policy as well as
humanity that had compelled the passing of the Emancipation Act, that
had cut the last thread of hope for the return of “the good old days”
of the South.
[Illustration:
THE PERRY PICTURES. 125. COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY M. P. RICE.
BOSTON EDITION.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.]
When Abraham Lincoln, with superhuman courage, made that moral stroke
of the pen that gave freedom to millions of slaves, then was born at
last a free country, not only in name, but in the glorious fact
that had blotted out from our country’s escutcheon the shame of human
slavery that had so long branded our vaunted freedom as a disgrace.
The people, the great middle class, the saviours of freedom who in
great crises rise to a national emergency like a towering Gibraltar,
had risen to uphold the weary hands of him who loved his country more
than life, though so often it had seemed as if the waves of care and
sorrow would engulf his tired soul.
Many officers, and others able to secure leave of absence or passes,
hastened to witness this greatest of our national events. With other
State Agency ladies, I was anxious to break the long strain of caring
for sick and wounded patients amid scenes of the horrors of war
and bloodshed. Nine thousand men, at different times, filled this
well-organized camp. Mangled bodies were brought directly in from the
battle-fields where they had fallen, by means of temporary rails, on
rough bare sand cars, on which they were piled like so many logs,
one upon another, so great was the need of haste to get them to the
hospital. All of these were covered with dirt, powder, blood, torn
uniforms, and seemed an almost indistinguishable mass; while many a
half-severed limb dangled from a shattered human trunk.
I was fortunate in being able to go to Washington quite independently,
without fear of detention, having a pass from General Grant that
ordered all guards, pickets, steamboats and government roads to pass
“Miss Ada W. Smith,” and which practically would have allowed me to
travel free without question over the entire Northern States, as all
roads were then under government control. Thus was I enabled to accept
the invitation of Dr. Hettie K. Painter, Pennsylvania State Agent, and
her husband, to join their party going to Washington. On arriving in
that city we went to a small hotel, where we met some Western friends,
and found there also a former patient from City Point, Lieutenant
Gosper, who had lost a leg in the skirmish before Petersburg, and was
now convalescent. He manifested the usual cheerfulness of wounded men,
while waiting to have an artificial limb adjusted,--a free gift from
the government.
We had secured tickets and good places to see the official ceremony;
but the surging mass of humanity crowded us quite beyond hearing. On
this eventful morning a raw, threatening gale blew dust and loose
debris into our eyes and faces, nearly blinding us.
“And men looked up with mad disquietude upon the dull sky,” as we
awaited the signal of the President’s coming. At last the tall, gaunt
form of Mr. Lincoln came forward on to the portico of the Capitol,
surrounded by officials and attendants. Chief Justice Chase opened
the great Bible, and President Lincoln stepped forward, placing
his hand upon the book to take, for the second time, his oath of
office. At this moment, the leaden sky, that had not lifted during
the day, suddenly opened a small rift, while a strong bright ray
of sunshine shot through and rested upon the noble head of the
soon-to-be-glorified martyr. A silence of awe seemed for a moment
to overspread the startled multitude, and then the darkening gloom
closed down again as with an ominous foreboding. But not a word of
that memorable address could we hear above the soughing, cold, gusty
wind.
While planning for the reception, our young lieutenant, sensitive and
refined, positively declined to accompany us, repeating only: “It is
no place for a cripple.”
After we had exhausted all other arguments, a happy thought came to
me: “Well, Lieutenant, if you will not go with us I suppose I shall
have to stay away also; each of the other ladies has an escort, and,
as every lady must be attended, I can not go alone.”
“Would you go to a reception with a cripple on a crutch?” he replied,
sadly.
My answer came quickly and sincerely: “I would be proud of such an
escort!”
At last he consented, rather reluctantly, to accompany us. At the
appointed hour we started for the evening reception. Soon, however,
we found ourselves in a frightful crush of people, crowding up the
White House steps, and we quickly closed around the lieutenant,
fearing he might get under foot. Our party was carried up bodily to
the landing, where I found that my arm was quite badly bruised by the
crutch.
After getting breath and composing ourselves, we fell into the long
procession of couples approaching the President, where the ushers
went through the form of taking our names and introducing us. In
passing we saw a group of cabinet officers and a number of ladies
with Mrs. Lincoln, who was gowned in white satin with a deep black
thread lace flounce over an expansive skirt, in the style of that
day; and she wore her favorite head dress, a wreath of natural pink
roses entirely around her plainly dressed hair.
The President’s band played stirring airs in an adjoining room, while
crowds of every grade passed on, some in dashing uniforms, some in
evidently fresh “store clothes,” others in gorgeous costumes, and
the good women from the country in sensible black,--with ill-fitting
gloves. It was a motley democratic crowd, such as could be seen in no
royal country, and of which we are justly proud. Following the almost
endless procession we saw the unmistakable form of Mr. Lincoln, his
long arm and white-gloved hand reaching out to shake hands, and
bowing in a mechanical manner, plainly showing that he wished this
demand of the people was well over.
Suddenly straightening up his tall form, while continuing the
handshaking, he looked eagerly down the line and, to my surprise,
as the lieutenant and I approached, he stepped out before us
and, grasping the hand of the crippled soldier, he said in an
unforgettable tone of deep sympathy: “God bless you, my boy! God
bless you!” Owing to the lieutenant’s crutch I was obliged to take
his left arm which brought me on the outside away from the President.
I attempted to pass with a bow, but he stood in my way, still
holding out his large hand, until I released mine and gave it to
him, receiving a warm, sympathetic grasp. Then I saw that wonderful
lighting of his kindly beneficent grey eyes, that for a moment often
beautified as with a halo that otherwise plain, sad face. As we moved
on, the lieutenant exclaimed in happy exultation, “Oh! I’d lose
another leg for a man like that!”
Such was the magnetic tone and touch of that rare spirit that carried
hope and trust to the hopeless sorrowing, the great heart that could
with truth and sincerity enfold not only his own country, but the
whole human brotherhood of the world, and caused him to reply in
effect to those who wished him to subscribe to some special creed:
“When I can find a church broad enough to take in the whole human
race, then I will join it.”
Once again I saw President Lincoln, after the inaugural, early in
April--that fateful month in which occurred the last battle of the
rebellion, the surrender of heroic Lee, the act of the magnanimous
Grant, the imprisonment of the Confederate leader, the conference of
those great men of war and state.
When Abraham Lincoln had come, in his own boat the River Queen,
to meet Grant and Sherman at City Point, he was so secure in the
conclusion of peace at last, that he had brought Mrs. Lincoln and
“little Tad” to share in the general rejoicing.
I did not see Mrs. Lincoln at that time, and I had also missed seeing
her in 1863, when I had taken to the famous Soldier’s Rest and
Hospital in Philadelphia one soldier blinded by a bullet that passed
through his head, cutting both optic nerves, one who had lost both
legs, and another who had lost both arms.
During the war, when the troops were en route to the front and halted
in Philadelphia, the great Liberty Bell announced their coming, and
hundreds of women and many men hastened with bountiful supplies to
this great Rest, where they set up rough wooden tables. Here many
passing regiments had a generous meal, and almost lifted the roof
with their grateful shouts, exceeded only by those of the outside
crowd as they marched away to the jolly tune of the fife and drum.
At City Point the three Titans of war and state--Lincoln, Grant and
Sherman--met with navy and state officers to conclude the terms of
surrender and peace. There was no desire to confirm the battle cry,
“Hang Jeff Davis,” as in most countries would have been inevitable,
and even sympathy and mercy inspired the closing acts of this
national tragedy that had cost the lives of thousands of brave
Southerners, and of those of the invincible North.
During this mighty conclave at City Point, Abraham Lincoln was
occasionally seen riding to the front and about camp and hospital,
and to visit the tents, in his sombre black suit and high hat
towering above many striking uniforms about him. It was a singular
fact that while many ministers had come down to “overlook the field”
dressed in the same fashion, except that there was always somehow
a ministerial dip of the front corners of their long frock coats
that at once betrayed their profession, they were often ridiculed
and guyed by the rough soldiers. Yet the thought of ridicule was
never suggested for this unique man who seemed to dignify and honor
everything he touched, even when, in the same style, he rode his
horse in an ungainly manner. He could have ridden bareback without
loss of dignity.
On one of these occasions Mr. Lincoln had ridden up from the Point
to visit our hospital, and was, as usual, accompanied by crowds of
devoted friends as he walked through the divisions and avenues of
the different camps. There were gathered the sick and wounded of
the Ninth, Sixth, Fifth, Second Corps, and the Corps d’ Afric, who
were frequently visited by their regimental surgeons and officers of
regiments that were encamped before Petersburg.
I shall always regret not speaking to Mr. Lincoln at that time. It
would have been very easy to do, but I could not see the coming
catastrophe, and I hesitated to push forward into the surrounding
crowd to be presented. As he passed from tent to tent, with many
a cheerful word to the suffering men, a young man connected with
the Sanitary Commission, now Doctor Jerome Walker, a successful
physician of Brooklyn, said, pointing to some tents near-by, “Mr.
President, you do not want to go in there!”
“Why not, my boy?” he asked.
“Why, sir, they are sick rebel prisoners.”
With a hasty movement he said, “That is just where I do want to
go,” and he strode within the tent, shaking hands and speaking such
words of comfort as only his magnanimous spirit could prompt, to the
grateful surprise and pleasure of the Confederate patients.
ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN
On the morning of April 15th, 1865, as the sun rose over our quiet
hospital camp, I was startled by the sound of galloping hoofs, that
stopped suddenly before our tent. Scratching on the canvas indicated
the usual sign for admission. Hastily untying the tent flaps, I found
Major William Baker, of the Tenth Colored Troops, still mounted, and
betraying much agitation and haste, when he said: “I have just ridden
up to tell you, the first person in the hospital, the sad news of the
reported death of the President. All officers were assembled at 2 A.
M. to a conference, when the reported assassination by Wilkes Booth
was read, but not yet officially confirmed.” With a sad expression
and a salute he put spurs to his horse and dashed back to City Point.
Telegrams were slow in those days, so it was not till the afternoon
that the terrible, cruel tragedy was announced at the hospital camp.
The shock was paralyzing, and a sombre silence spread over the wards
containing the men who had learned to love this great soul. Men and
women as well as soldiers wept together as for a loved, indulgent
father, who had borne his crushing responsibilities without a murmur
or a cry for help. A few copperhead patients dared to approve of
the murderous act, but they were soon beaten into silence with the
crutches of the indignant crippled convalescents.
[Illustration: MAJOR WILLIAM BAKER]
[Illustration: J. WILKES BOOTH]
With a vague desire to express in some way their grief, men came and
begged for a bit of black to fasten over their tents, and if any were
so luckless as to have a black suit they saw it speedily reduced
to shreds and flying from the entrances of the wards or tents. But
other men still begged so earnestly for some black emblem, that I at
last gave to them a full train black skirt that I could illy spare.
This soon became floating ribbons over many a tent, to the great
satisfaction of the loyal boys, having so little by which they could
express their sorrow. In a few days some of us were so fortunate as
to receive from home or from Washington, mourning badges of suitable
designs, which we wore as a mark of respect to our dead President.
In making the rounds among my scattered patients I stopped to speak
to Major Prentiss, of a New York regiment, who had captured his
wayward young brother--a Captain in the Sixth Maryland Confederate
Infantry--now lying in the same ward quite near, having lost a
leg. The Captain, a handsome, cheerful youth, whose happy jokes
and stories kept his neighbours quite diverted from the tedium of
convalescence, was recovering slowly; but the Major had been shot
through the lung, and one could hear the air passing through the
unhealed wound. He looked so longingly at the badge I was wearing,
that another brother, who had come South to take the patients home
if possible, said: “He would be so happy if he could have a badge.”
It was impossible to ignore the wish of a dying soldier, so I took
off the one I was wearing and pinned it over his heart. He could not
speak his thanks, but a rare smile of intense satisfaction spread
over the sufferer’s countenance.
As in most great catastrophes, it seemed for a time as if the world
must stand still; but many patients still needed care, and we were
obliged to go on with our work till all the sick were sent home or to
Northern hospitals, and each resumed his daily duty, while the spirit
of sadness hovered over the hospital campus.
Lincoln was not a type,
No ancestors, no fellows, no successors.
Ingersoll.
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores
a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck, my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Walt Whitman.