FROM THE WILDERNESS TO THE JAMES
IN THE YEAR 1864
Clara Barton returned from Port Royal and Hilton Head sometime in
January, 1864. On January 28 she was in Worcester, whence she addressed
a letter to Colonel Clark in regard to the forthcoming reunion of
veterans in Worcester. She did not expect to be present, as her stay in
Massachusetts was to be brief.
On Sunday, February 14, she was in Brooklyn, and, as usual, went to
hear Henry Ward Beecher. He preached on “Unwritten Heroism,” and
related some heroic incidents in the life of an Irish servant girl who,
all unknown to fame, was still a heroine. Clara meditated on the sermon
and regretted that she herself was not more heroic.
Before many days she was in Washington. It was rainy and cold. She
found very little that was inspiring. Her room was cheerless, though
she does not say so, but the little touches which she gave to it, as
recorded, show how bare and comfortless it must have been. Her salary
at the Patent Office continued, but it now becomes apparent that the
arrangement whereby the other women in the Patent Office were to do
her work had not continued indefinitely. She was hiring a partially
disabled man to do her writing and was dividing her salary with him.
Out of the balance she paid the rent of her room, eighty-four dollars a
year, payable a year in advance. It was not exorbitant rent considering
the demand for space in Washington. But it was a cheerless place, and
she did not occupy it much. Principally, it was a storehouse for her
supplies, with a place partitioned off for her own bedroom. She had
many callers, however, Senator Wilson coming to see her frequently,
and aiding her in every possible way. More than once she gave him
information which he, as chairman of the Committee on Military Affairs
of the United States Senate, utilized with far-reaching results.
Sometimes she told him in the most uncompromising manner of what she
regarded as abuses which she had witnessed. There were times when men
seemed to her very cowardly, and the Government machinery very clumsy
and ineffective. On the evening of April 13, 1864, she was fairly well
disgusted with all mankind. She thus wrote her opinion of the human
race, referring particularly to the masculine part of it:
I am thinking very busily about the result of the investigation into
the Florida matter. Is General Seymour to be sacrificed when so many
hundred people and the _men_ know it to be all based on falsehood
and wrong? Is there no manly justice in the world? Is there not one
among them all that _dares_ risk the little of military station
he may possess to come out and speak the truth, and do the right? Oh,
pity! O Lord, what is man that thou art mindful of him!
The next day was not a cheerful day for her. She was still brooding
on some of these same matters. She tried in those days to escape from
these unhappy reflections by going where she would be compelled to
think of something else. But not even in church could she always keep
her mind off of them. She wrote at length in her diary on the morning
of the 14th, and that evening, when Senator Wilson called, she told
him what she thought of the United States Army, the United States
Senate, and of people and things in general:
_Thursday, April 14th, 1864._ This was one of the most
down-spirited days that ever came to me. All the world appeared
selfish and treacherous. I can get no hold on a good noble sentiment
_anywhere_. I have scanned over and over the whole moral horizon
and it is all dark, the night clouds seem to have shut down, so
stagnant, so dead, so selfish, so calculating. Is there no right?
Are there no consequences attending wrong? How shall the world move
on in all this weight of dead, morbid meanness? Shall lies prevail
forevermore? Look at the state of things, both civil and military,
that curse our Government. The pompous air with which little dishonest
pimps lord it over their betters. Contractors ruining the Nation,
and oppressing the poor, and no one rebukes them. See a monkey-faced
official, not twenty rods from me, oppressing and degrading poor women
who come up to his stall to feed their children, that he may steal
with better grace and show to the Government how much his economy
saves it each month. Poor blind Government never feels inside his
pockets, pouching with ill-gotten gain, heavy with sin. His whole
department know it, but it might not be quite _wise_ for them to
speak--they will tell it freely enough, but will not, dare not affirm
it--COWARDS! Congress knows it, but no one can see that it
will make votes for him at home by meddling with it, so it is winked
at. The Cabinet know it, but people that live in glass houses must
not throw stones. So it rests, and the women live lighter and _sink
lower_, God help them. And next an ambitious, dishonest General
lays a political plot to be executed with human life. He is to create
a Senator, some memberships, a Governor, commissions, and all the
various offices of a state, and the grateful recipients are to repay
the favor by gaining for him his confirmation as Major-General. So the
poor rank and file are marched out to do the job, a leader is selected
known to be _brave_ to rashness if need be, and given the command
in the dark, that he may never be able to claim any portion of the
glory--so that he cannot say _I_ did it. Doomed, and he knows it,
he is sent on, remonstrates, comes back and explains, is left alone
with the responsibility on his shoulders, forces divided, animals
starving, men suffering, enemy massing in front, and still there he
is. Suddenly he is attacked, defeated as he expected he must be,
and the world is shocked by the tales of his rashness and procedure
contrary to orders. He cannot speak; he is a subordinate officer and
must remain silent; the thousands with him know it, but _they_
must not speak; Congress does _not_ know it, and refuses to be
informed; and the doomed one is condemned and the guilty one asks
for his reward, and the admiring world claims it for him. He has had
a battle and _only lost_ two thousand men and gained nothing.
Surely, this deserved something. And still the world moves on. No
wonder it looks dark, though, to those who do not wear the tinsel. And
so my day has been weary with these thoughts, and my heart heavy and I
cannot raise it--I doubt the justice of _almost_ all I see.
Evening. At eight Mr. Wilson called. I asked him if the investigation
was closed. He replied yes, and that General Seymour would leave the
Department in disgrace. This was too much for my fretted soul, and I
poured out the vials of my indignation in no stinted measure. I told
him the facts, and what I thought of a Committee that was too imbecile
to listen to the truth when it was presented to them; that they had
made themselves a laughing-stock for even the privates in the service
by their stupendous inactivity and gullibility; that they were all
a set of dupes, not to say knaves, for I knew Gray of New York had
been on using all his blarney with them that was possible to wipe
over them. When I had freed my mind, and it was some time, he looked
amazed and called for a written statement. I promised it. He left. I
was anxious to possess myself of the most reliable facts in existence
and decide to go to New York and see Colonel Hall and Dr. Marsh again;
make my toilet ready, write some letters, and at three o’clock retired.
From all of this it will appear that Clara Barton had a rather gloomy
time of it after her return to Washington. Old friends called on her
and she was amid pleasant surroundings, but she was ill at ease. The
Army of the Potomac had failed to hold its old position north of
the Rappahannock. She anticipated the same old round which she had
witnessed, marching and counter-marching with ineffective fighting,
great suffering, and no permanent results. Nor did she see how she
was henceforth to be of much assistance. The Sanitary and Christian
Commissions were doing increasingly effective work in the gathering and
distribution of supplies. The hospitals were approaching what ought to
have been a state of efficiency. There seemed little place for her. She
went to the War Department to obtain blanket passes, permitting herself
and friend to go wherever she might deem it wise to go, and to have
transportation for their supplies. She could hardly ask for anything
less if she were to ask for anything, but it was a larger request than
Secretary Stanton was at that time ready to grant. Her attempts to
secure what she deemed necessary through the Medical Department were
unavailing. The Medical Department thought itself competent to manage
its own affairs. But she knew that there was desperate need of the kind
of service which she could render.
For a time she questioned seriously whether she should not give up
the whole attempt to return to the front. She even considered the
possibility of asking for her old desk at the Patent Office, and
letting the doctors and nurses take care of the wounded in the way they
thought best.
The national conventions were approaching. A woman in Ohio who had
worked with her on the battle-field wrote asking Miss Barton for whom
she intended to vote. She replied at considerable length. She intended
to vote for the Republican candidate whoever he might be, because in so
doing she would vote for the Union. She would not vote for McClellan
nor for any other candidate nominated by his party. For three years
she had been voting for Abraham Lincoln. She thought she still would
vote for him; she trusted him and believed in him. But still if the
Republicans should nominate Frémont, she would not withhold her
approval. There was in Washington and in the army so much incompetence,
so much rascality, it was possible that another President--especially
one with military experience--would push the war to a speedier finish,
and rout out some of the rascality she saw in Washington. She thought
that Frémont might possibly have some advantage over Lincoln in this
respect. But she rather hoped Lincoln would be renominated. He was so
worthy, so honest, so kind, and the people could trust him. Though the
abuses which had grown up under his administration were great, they
were mostly inevitable. And so she rather thought she would vote for
Lincoln, even in preference to the very popular hero, Frémont. Frémont
had, indeed, seen, sooner than Lincoln, the necessity of abolition,
and she thought would have a stronger grip on military affairs. But her
heart was with Lincoln.
While she was waiting for a new call to service and was busy every day
with a multitude of cares, she heard a lecture by the Reverend George
Thompson, which is of interest because it enables us to discover how
she now had come to feel about “Old John Brown.” It will be remembered
that she had not wholly approved the John Brown raid, nor shared in
the public demonstrations that followed his execution. She had come,
however, to a very different feeling with regard to him. On April 6,
1864, George Thompson, the abolitionist, gave an address in Washington.
The address was delivered in the hall of the House of Representatives,
and the President and Cabinet were among those who attended. Clara
Barton was present, and close beside her in the gallery sat John
Brown’s brother.
For a few days previous she had been reading “No Name,” by Wilkie
Collins. She compared his style to that of Dickens with some
discriminating comments on the literary work of each. But she
discontinued “No Name” when near the end of it, in order to read in
preparation for the lecture by George Thompson. It will be well to
quote her entry in her diary for the 5th and 6th of April:
_Washington, April 5th, 1864, Tuesday._ Rained all day just as if
it had not rained every other day for almost two weeks, and I read as
steadily indoors as it rained out; am nearly through with “No Name.”
Until 4 o’clock P.M. I had no disturbance, and then a most
pleasant one. Mr. Brown came in to bring me letters from Mary Norton
and Julia, and next to ask me to mend a little clothing, and next to
present me a beautiful scrapbook designed for _my own_ articles.
It is a very beautiful article and I prize it much. Then my friend,
Mr. Parker, called for a chat, and I read to him some two hours, in
order to prepare his mind for George Thompson’s lecture which is to
occur to-morrow night. Then a call from Senator W., and next Dr.
Elliott which lasted till just now, and it is almost eleven o’clock,
and I have set my fire out and apparently passed the day to little
purpose; still, I think it has glided away very innocently, and with a
few minutes’ preparation I shall retire with a grateful heart for the
even, pleasant days which run so smoothly in my course.
_Washington, April 6th, 1864, Wednesday._ There are signs of
clear weather, although it is by no means an established fact yet. I
laid my reading aside, and took up my pen to address a letter to Mr.
Wilson. I wrote at greater length than I had expected and occupied
quite a portion of the day. The subject woke up the recollection of
a train of ills and wrongs submitted to and borne so long that I
suffered intensely in the reproduction of them, but I did reproduce,
whether to any purpose or not time will reveal. It is not to be
supposed that any decided revolution is to follow, as this is never
to be looked for in my case. I have done expecting it, and done, I
trust, with my efforts in behalf of others. I must take the little
remnant of life that may remain to me as my own special property, and
appropriate it accordingly. I had asked an appointment, as before
referred to. I find I cannot make the use of it I had desired, and
I have asked to recall the application. I have said I could not
afford to make it. This was the day preceding the night of Mr. George
Thompson’s lecture in the Hall of Representatives. I went early
with Mr. Brown. We went into the gallery and took a front seat in a
side gallery. The House commenced to fill very rapidly with one of
the finest-looking audiences that could be gathered in Washington.
Conspicuous among them were Mr. Chase, Governor Sprague, Senator
Wilson, Governor Boutwell and lady, Speaker Colfax, Thad. Stevens,
and, to cap all, the brother of “Old John Brown” came and sat with us.
At eight the orator of the evening entered the Hall in the same group
with President Lincoln, Vice-President Hamlin, Rev. Mr. Pierpont, and
others whom I did not recognize. Preliminary remarks were made by
Mr. Pierpont. Next followed Mr. Hamlin, who introduced Mr. Thompson,
who arose under so severe emotions that he could scarce utter a
word. It seemed for a time that he would fall before the audience
he had come to address. The contrast was evidently too great to be
contemplated with composure; his sensitive mind reverted doubtless to
his previous visits to this country, when he had seen himself hung
and burnt in effigy, been mobbed, stoned, and assailed with “filthy
missiles,” and now he stood, almost deafened with applause, in the
Hall of Representatives of America, America “free” from the shackles
of slavery, and to address the President, and great political heads
of the Nation. No wonder he was overcome, no wonder that the air
felt thick, and his words came feebly, and his body bent beneath
the weight of the contrast, the glorious consummation of all he had
so earnestly labored and so devoutly prayed for. But by degrees his
strength returned, and the rich melody of his voice filled every inch
of the vast hall, and delighted every loyal, truth-loving ear. It
would be useless for me to attempt a description of his address--it
is so far immortal as to be always found, I trust, among the records
of the glorious doings and sayings of our country’s supporters. His
endorsement of the President was one of the most touching and sublime
things I have ever heard uttered, and the messages from England to him
breathed a spirit of friendship which I was not prepared to listen
to. Surely we are not to growl at and complain of England as jealous
and hostile when her working-people, deprived of their daily labor
and the support of their families through our difficulties, bid us
Godspeed, and never to yield till our purpose has been accomplished,
and congratulate us upon having achieved our independence in the War
of the Revolution, and ask us now to go on and achieve a still greater
independence, which shall embrace the whole civilized world. Surely
these words show a nobler spirit in England than we had any reason or
real right to expect. His remarks touching John Brown were strong,
and, sitting as I was, watching the immediate effect upon the brother
at my side, and when in a few minutes the band struck up the familiar
air dedicated to him the world over, I truly felt that John Brown’s
Soul _was_ marching on, and that the mouldering in the grave was
of little account; the brother evidently felt the same. There was a
glistening of the eye and a compression of the lip which spoke it all
and more; he was evidently proud of the gallows rope that hung Old
John Brown, “Old Hero Brown!”
On leaving the Hall, Mr. Parker joined us, and we all took a cream at
Simmod’s and returned, and I made good my escape to my room.
Since her return from Hilton Head, she had been furnished no passes.
Official Washington had forgotten her in her year of absence. But there
came a day when Clara Barton had no difficulty in obtaining passes, and
when all Washington was willing enough to have her go to the front.
That was when the battle of Spotsylvania occurred, May 8, 1864. It took
Washington a day or two to realize the gravity of the situation; and
Clara Barton was begging and imploring the opportunity to hasten at the
sound of the first gun. There was refusal and delay; then, when it was
realized that more than 2700 men had been killed and more than 13,000
wounded, her passes came. General Rucker, who had been endeavoring to
secure them for her, obtained them, and sent them in haste by special
messenger; and Clara Barton was back on the boat, landing, as so often
before, at Acquia Creek, and wading through the red mud to where the
wounded were.
They were everywhere; and most of all they were in wagons sunk to the
hub in mud, and stalled where they could not get out, while men groaned
and died and maggots crawled in their wounds. Bitterly she lamented the
lost hours while she had been clamoring for passes; but now she set
herself to work with such facilities as she could command, first for
the relief of the wounded men in wagons:
The terrible slaughter of the Wilderness and Spotsylvania turned all
pitying hearts and helping hands once more to Fredericksburg [she
wrote afterward]. And no one who reached it by way of Belle Plain,
while this latter constituted the base of supplies for General Grant’s
army, can have forgotten the peculiar geographical location, and
the consequent fearful condition of the country immediately about
the landing, which consisted of a narrow ridge of high land on the
left bank of the river. Along the right extended the river itself.
On the left, the hills towered up almost to a mountain height. The
same ridge of high land was in front at a quarter of a mile distant,
through which a narrow defile formed the road leading out, and on to
Fredericksburg, ten miles away, thus leaving a level space or basin of
an area of a fourth of a mile, directly in front of the landing.
Across this small plain all transportation to and from the army must
necessarily pass. The soil was red clay. The ten thousand wheels
and hoofs had ground it to a powder, and a sudden rain upon the
surrounding hills had converted the entire basin into one vast
mortar-bed, smooth and glassy as a lake, and much the color of light
brick dust.
The poor, mutilated, starving sufferers of the Wilderness were pouring
into Fredericksburg by thousands--all to be taken away in army wagons
across ten miles of alternate hills, and hollows, stumps, roots, and
mud!
The boats from Washington to Belle Plain were loaded down with fresh
troops, while the wagons from Fredericksburg to Belle Plain were
loaded with wounded men and went back with supplies. The exchange was
transacted on this narrow ridge, called the landing.
I arrived from Washington with such supplies as I could take. It
was still raining. Some members of the Christian Commission had
reached an earlier boat, and, being unable to obtain transportation
to Fredericksburg, had erected a tent or two on the ridge and were
evidently considering what to do next.
To nearly or quite all of them the experience and scene were entirely
new. Most of them were clergymen, who had left at a day’s notice, by
request of the distracted fathers and mothers who could not go to the
relief of the dear ones stricken down by thousands, and thus begged
those in whom they had the most confidence to go for them. They went
willingly, but it was no easy task they had undertaken. It was hard
enough for old workers who commenced early and were inured to the life
and its work.
I shall never forget the scene which met my eye as I stepped from the
boat to the top of the ridge. Standing in this plain of mortar-mud
were at least two hundred six-mule army wagons, crowded full of
wounded men waiting to be taken upon the boats for Washington. They
had driven from Fredericksburg that morning. Each driver had gotten
his wagon as far as he could, for those in front of and about him had
stopped.
Of the depth of the mud, the best judgment was formed from the fact
that no entire hub of a wheel was in sight, and you saw nothing of
any animal below its knees and the mass of mud all settled into place
perfectly smooth and glassy.
As I contemplated the scene, a young, intelligent, delicate gentleman,
evidently a clergyman, approached me, and said anxiously, but almost
timidly: “Madam, do you think those wagons are filled with wounded
men?”
I replied that they undoubtedly were, and waiting to be placed on the
boats then unloading.
“How long must they wait?” he asked.
I said that, judging from the capacity of the boats, I thought they
could not be ready to leave much before night.
“What can we do for them?” he asked, still more anxiously.
“They are hungry and must be fed,” I replied.
For a moment his countenance brightened, then fell again as he
exclaimed: “What a pity; we have a great deal of clothing and reading
matter, but no food in any quantity, excepting crackers.”
I told him that I had coffee and that between us I thought we could
arrange to give them all hot coffee and crackers.
“But where shall we make our coffee?” he inquired, gazing wistfully
about the bare wet hillside.
I pointed to a little hollow beside a stump. “There is a good place
for a fire,” I explained, “and any of this loose brush will do.”
“Just here?” he asked.
“Just here, sir.”
He gathered the brush manfully and very soon we had some fire and a
great deal of smoke, two crotched sticks and a crane, if you please,
and presently a dozen camp-kettles of steaming hot coffee. My helper’s
pale face grew almost as bright as the flames and the smutty brands
looked blacker than ever in his slim white fingers.
Suddenly a new difficulty met him. “Our crackers are in barrels, and
we have neither basket nor box. How can we carry them?”
I suggested that aprons would be better than either, and, getting
something as near the size and shape of a common tablecloth as I could
find, tied one about him and one about me, fastened all four of the
corners to the waist, and pinned the sides, thus leaving one hand for
a kettle of coffee and one free, to administer it.
Thus equipped we moved down the slope. Twenty steps brought us to the
abrupt edge which joined the mud, much as the bank of a canal does the
black line of water beside it.
But here came the crowning obstacle of all. So completely had the
man been engrossed in his work, so delighted as one difficulty after
another vanished and success became more and more apparent, that he
entirely lost sight of the distance and difficulties between himself
and the objects to be served.
If you could have seen the expression of consternation and dismay
depicted in every feature of his fine face, as he imploringly
exclaimed, “How are we to get to them?”
“There is no way but to walk,” I answered.
He gave me one more look as much as to say, “Are you going to step
in there?” I allowed no time for the question, but, in spite of all
the solemnity of the occasion, and the terribleness of the scene
before me, I found myself striving hard to keep the muscles of my
face all straight. As it was, the corners of my mouth would draw into
wickedness, as with a backward glance I saw the good man tighten his
grasp upon his apron and take his first step into military life.
But thank God, it was not his last.
I believe it is recorded in heaven--the faithful work performed by
that Christian Commission minister through long weary months of rain
and dust and summer suns and winter snows. The sick soldier blessed
and the dying prayed for him, as through many a dreadful day he stood
fearless and firm among fire and smoke (not made of brush), and walked
calmly and unquestioningly through something redder and thicker than
the mud of Belle Plain.
No one has forgotten the heart-sickness which spread over the entire
country as the busy wires flashed the dire tidings of the terrible
destitution and suffering of the wounded of the Wilderness whom I
attended as they lay in Fredericksburg. But you may never have known
how many hundredfold of these ills were augmented by the conduct of
improper, heartless, unfaithful officers in the immediate command of
the city and upon whose actions and indecisions depended entirely the
care, food, shelter, comfort, and lives of that whole city of wounded
men. One of the highest officers there has since been convicted a
traitor. And another, a little dapper captain quartered with the
owners of one of the finest mansions in the town, boasted that he had
changed his opinion since entering the city the day before; that it
was in fact a pretty hard thing for refined people like the people of
Fredericksburg to be compelled to open their homes and admit “these
dirty, lousy, common soldiers,” and that he was not going to compel it.
This I heard him say, and waited until I saw him make his words good,
till I saw, crowded into one old sunken hotel, lying helpless upon
its bare, wet, bloody floors, five hundred fainting men hold up their
cold, bloodless, dingy hands, as I passed, and beg me in Heaven’s name
for a cracker to keep them from starving (and I had none); or to give
them a cup that they might have something to drink water from, if
they could get it (and I had no cup and could get none); till I saw
two hundred six-mule army wagons in a line, ranged down the street
to headquarters, and reaching so far out on the Wilderness road that
I never found the end of it; every wagon crowded with wounded men,
stopped, standing in the rain and mud, wrenched back and forth by the
restless, hungry animals all night from four o’clock in the afternoon
till eight next morning and how much longer I know not. The dark spot
in the mud under many a wagon, told only too plainly where some poor
fellow’s life had dripped out in those dreadful hours.
I remembered one man who would set it right, if he knew it, who
possessed the power and who would believe me if I told him [says
Miss Barton in describing this experience]. I commanded immediate
conveyance back to Belle Plain. With difficulty I obtained it, and
four stout horses with a light army wagon took me ten miles at an
unbroken gallop, through field and swamp and stumps and mud to Belle
Plain and a steam tug at once to Washington. Landing at dusk I sent
for Henry Wilson, chairman of the Military Committee of the Senate. A
messenger brought him at eight, saddened and appalled like every other
patriot in that fearful hour, at the weight of woe under which the
Nation staggered, groaned, and wept.
He listened to the story of suffering and faithlessness, and hurried
from my presence, with lips compressed and face like ashes. At ten he
stood in the War Department. They could not credit his report. He must
have been deceived by some frightened villain. No official report of
unusual suffering had reached them. Nothing had been called for by the
military authorities commanding Fredericksburg.
Mr. Wilson assured them that the officers in trust there were not to
be relied upon. They were faithless, overcome by the blandishments
of the wily inhabitants. Still the Department doubted. It was then
that he proved that my confidence in his firmness was not misplaced,
as, facing his doubters he replies: “One of two things will have
to be done--either you will send some one to-night with the power
to investigate and correct the abuses of our wounded men at
Fredericksburg, or the Senate will send some one to-morrow.”
This threat recalled their scattered senses.
At two o’clock in the morning the Quartermaster-General and staff
galloped to the 6th Street wharf under orders; at ten they were in
Fredericksburg. At noon the wounded men were fed from the food of the
city and the houses were opened to the “_dirty, lousy_ soldiers”
of the Union Army.
Both railroad and canal were opened. In three days I returned with
carloads of supplies.
No more jolting in army wagons! And every man who left Fredericksburg
by boat or by car owes it to the firm decision of one man that his
grating bones were not dragged ten miles across the country or left to
bleach in the sands of that city.
Yes, they owed it all to Senator Wilson. And he owed it to Clara Barton.
Why was there such neglect, and why did no one else report it?
The surgeons on the front were busy, and they did not see it. The
surgeons and nurses in the base hospitals were busy, and they knew
nothing of it. Military commanders only knew that the roads were bad,
and that it was difficult to move troops to the front or wounded
men back to the rear, but supposed that the best was being made of
a bad matter. But Clara Barton knew that, if some one in authority
could realize that thousands of men were suffering needless agony and
hundreds were dying who might be saved, something would be done.
Something was done; and many a soldier who lived and regained his
health had reason, without knowing it, to bless the name of Clara
Barton.
At the close of the Wilderness campaign, Clara Barton found time to
answer some letters and acknowledge some remittances. In one of these
letters she answered the question why, being as she was in close
touch and entire sympathy with the work of the Sanitary and Christian
Commissions, she still continued to do her work independently. It is a
thoroughly characteristic letter:
May 30, 1864
... The question would naturally arise with strangers, why I, feeling
so in unison with the Commission and among whose members I number my
best friends, should maintain a separated organization. To those who
know me it is obvious. Long before either commission was in the field,
or had even an existence, I was laboring by myself for the little I
might be able to accomplish and, gathering such helpers about me as
I was best able to do, toiled in the front of our armies wherever I
could reach, and thus I have labored on up to the present time. Death
has sometimes laid his hand upon the active forces of my co-workers
and stilled the steps most useful to me, but others have risen up to
supply the place, and now it does not seem wise or desirable, after
all this time, to change my course. If I have by practice acquired
any skill, it belongs to me to use untrammeled, and I might not work
as efficiently, or labor as happily, under the direction of those
of less experience than myself. It is simply just to all parties
that I retain my present position, and through all up to the present
time I have been always able to meet my own demands with such little
supplies as came voluntarily from my circle of personal friends,
which fortunately was not small. But the necessities of the present
campaign were well-nigh overwhelming, and my duty required that I
gather all I could, even if I shouted aloud to strangers for those
who lay fainting and speechless by the wayside or moaning in this
wilderness. I did so and such responses as yours have been the reply.
Dearly do I think God poured his blessing on my little work, for the
friends He has raised up to aid me, for the uninterrupted health and
unfailing strength He has given me, and more and more with each day’s
observation do I stand overawed by the great lessons He is teaching
us His children, grand and stern as the earthquake’s shock, judgments
soft and terrible as the lightning stroke. He is leading us back to
a sense of justice and duty and humanity, while our thousand guns
flash freedom and our martyrs die. It is a terrible sacrifice which
He requires at our hands and in obedience the Nation has builded its
altar and uplifted its arm of faith and the knife gleams above the
child. He who commands it alone knows when His angel shall call from
heaven to stay our hands and bid us no longer slay our own. Then may
we find hidden in the peaceful thicket the appropriate sacrifice that
in blessing He may bless us, that our young men return together, that
our seed shall possess the gates of our enemies, and that all the
nations of the earth be blessed.