of the Academy. One who witnessed the feat described the scene,--the
clean-cut, blue-eyed young man who at the call of the riding-master
dashed out from the ranks on a powerfully built chestnut sorrel horse
and rode to the end of the hall. Turning he galloped down the center
toward a bar placed higher than the head of a tall man standing. Within
a short distance of the bar the horse paused and gathering all his
strength for the mighty effort vaulted over. Forty years later Grant
remembered the steed that had served him so well and said, "York was a
wonderful horse." After the war, learning that his old riding-master was
poor and helpless, General Grant sent him a cheque.
The old soldier never claimed to have distinguished himself in
scholarship at West Point, but he must have made an impression of
strength upon those around him, for one of his classmates, James A.
Hardie, said, "If a great emergency arises in this country during our
lifetime Sam Grant will be the man to meet it."
He had the simplicity characteristic of all really great minds, and the
directness of a soldier, going straight to his aim; he never either
overshot or undershot the mark. He spent a part of every day walking
unattended along the streets enjoying exercise and open air unhampered
by guards, and his daily rides were also usually solitary, for in his
racing buggy behind his magnificent trotter, leaning over the dashboard
to encourage his horse by a friendly word, there was scarcely anything
in Washington that could have kept him in view. Only once was he passed
in a race. His friend and clerk, Lieutenant Culver C. Sniffen, now a
General on the retired list, owned a fine horse and the President
challenged him to a race. The Lieutenant declined, not wishing either
to beat the President or be beaten by him. The President, with the true
sporting instinct, persisted until the Lieutenant, fired with like
emulation, yielded and rode to win. He did win and the President was
very fond of telling the story of the only time he had ever lost a race.
General Grant had one sad memory connected with a horse, dating back to
the time when he was a young officer in Mexico. He rode a beautiful
fierce untamable animal that in years past had killed a number of
would-be riders. A Mexican officer who was a skilled and daring horseman
had an ambition to mount the horse. Lieutenant Grant, fearing for the
safety of his Mexican friend, would not consent to his riding so
dangerous a beast. The Mexican would not let himself be dissuaded and
the Lieutenant, fearing that the friend might think that he did not want
him to ride his horse, ceased his opposition. The Mexican mounted and
was thrown and killed.
Occasionally when it could not be avoided the President would curb his
wild spirit sufficiently to take a leisurely drive in Mrs. Grant's easy
carriage behind the tall and dignified black coachman, Hawkins, attended
by the almost equally imposing footman, Jerry. Usually this stately
equipage was left to the unshared enjoyment of Mrs. Grant and her
guests. A number of pleasant drives I took with my hostess, sometimes
into the country around Washington, and sometimes to the Soldiers' Home
where the veterans bivouacked peacefully until they should be mustered
out of the earthly army. The long rows of white wooden slabs with black
lettered names upon them brought back vividly memories so new that they
lay near the surface of my heart.
It may be that to one familiar with the Washington of to-day the views
of the city at that time would have been marred by primitive
architectural features, but Nature had so far done her best in the
beginning that one might well accept the opinion of Humboldt who, after
visiting all the cities of the known world, said that for a site the
entire globe does not hold its equal. The youthful surveyor, long before
he became the "Father of his Country," wrought well in fancy when gazing
across the Potomac he viewed the fair prospect with prophetic eye and
foresaw a stately capitol of a great nation rising from one of its green
hills. So well had the capital city weathered the storm that had almost
wrecked the Ship of State that one who had known it in war days might
have found it beautiful in comparison.
Inside the White House the deft fingers of Martha Johnson Patterson had
wrought miracles of adornment out of the web of her imagination, aided
by a few simple materials which in less skillful hands would have been
ineffective. Within its walls life went on to the time kept by Madison's
clock that had ticked away all the decades since the "Father of the
Constitution" held guardianship over that complicated child of many
variegated phases.
General Grant, as head of the United States Army, regarded his staff as
his military family and chose its members according to his desire. As
President he took a similar view of his Cabinet, looking upon it as his
civic family, and did not cast a favorable eye upon recommendations made
by politicians who wished to draw upon him for the payment of their
campaign debts. Having no such debts of his own, being tied to no party
and bound by no pledges, he felt free to select his associates as he
thought best, thereby incurring the ill-will of party leaders who held
their positions by heavy mortgages to office-seekers. I suppose soldiers
have an instinctive aversion to politicians, not only because they make
war but because they insist upon managing it throughout its whole
existence. Thus Grant sought his advisers in non-political fields.
The President was severely criticized for his appointment of Mr. A. T.
Stewart as Secretary of the Treasury, in contradiction to the "nine
statutes" which Mr. Conkling afterward found to bar the way, but the
wise statesmen of the Senate confirmed the appointment with eager
promptness, and it could scarcely be demanded that a soldier with more
opportunity of knowing the regulations of battlefields than the statutes
that govern political administration should be better informed as to
civic laws than those who have devoted a large part of their lives to
the study and framing of such laws. Failing this appointment Governor
Boutwell, a good friend of the President, was made Secretary of the
Treasury, and it was as one of the most trusted advisers in the Cabinet
that I met him.
The sympathies of President Grant were deep and broad and sometimes
presented humorous phases. At a Cabinet meeting one day he brought up
the case of a lawyer whom he thought of appointing Chief Justice of one
of the territories, expressing pity for him because he had lost a leg in
battle. After an extended silence the Attorney-General, Judge Rockwood
Hoar, quietly remarked, "Mr. President, it seems to me that mere absence
of legs is not a sufficient qualification for judicial office." The
other members looked apprehensive, but the President laughed and said
that he would think of it further. The result of more mature reflection
was that some one else was appointed, presumably with the normal
equipment of legs and a fair endowment of unquestionable judicial merit.
Attorney-General Rockwood Hoar was never averse to expressing his
sentiments in rugged English, but his somewhat burry aspect and speech
covered a good healthy heart filled with sympathetic impulses. His wit
was a shining blade that cut more deeply than he intended, sometimes to
his regret, but his eloquence on the finer phases of life was a radiance
of sunlight. The true depth of his nature was shown in his kindness to
all who needed him.
The most impressive member of the Cabinet was, quite appropriately, the
head of the State Department, Secretary Hamilton Fish. Six feet tall, of
distinguished bearing, with strong face surmounted by dark curling hair,
intense eyes that seemed to look through the object of their gaze,
graceful and cultivated manner, he was a noted figure in any assemblage.
His tact and statesmanship kept the country off the diplomatic reefs on
which it might have been wrecked by a guiding hand less firm. President
Grant said, "History will write that we have had two great Secretaries
of State, Governor Marcy and Governor Fish." Mr. Fish was always
immaculately dressed, a distinctive mark of his attire being a diamond
breastpin, which he always wore in his shirt. He succeeded the
six-weeks' term of Mr. Elihu B. Washburne, who was transferred to Paris
and, as Minister during the stormy period of the Franco-Prussian War,
gained the admiration and confidence not only of his own country but of
Europe as well for his wise and patriotic service.
The President and my Soldier often talked of the war, discussing it from
their opposite view-points. Never once did General Grant refer to us as
"rebels." He always mentioned us as, "You fellows on the other side."
General Grant was deeply interested in the battle of Gettysburg, of
which he knew only by report. One day at the close of dinner he asked my
Soldier to explain certain movements in the final charge. To make the
inquiry plainer he drew some lines on the table-cloth with the handle of
a spoon. My Soldier took the spoon from the President's hand and drew
upon the cloth a diagram, briefly explaining as he went along:
"Here is Seminary Ridge; there Cemetery Ridge. Here is Round Top. This
is Meade's left; here, Meade's right. There are the Confederate troops
in the woods; here, Gettysburg. There is the Fifth Corps. Here are the
batteries, and there, Hall's Brigade. Here are Cushing and Webb. Here is
Clark's Brigade; there, a rail fence. Here is the Third Brigade."
Lining off a space at one corner to enlarge the vital point of the
charge, he continued:
"Here is the turning point of the third day. There, the stone wall we
crossed. There is Webb. Here is the Confederate assault. There is where
Armistead got over; here, where he fell." Drawing his hand quickly
across the corner beyond he added, "There is hell!"
"Bring me a blue pencil," said the President to a servant. When it was
brought he carefully marked over the lines in the soft-laid cloth and
carried it into the smoking-room.
The tenderest memory I have of President Grant, because it is the one
closest to my heart, is of him and my Soldier as they stood facing each
other in the President's office just before the close of our visit. I
can see them now looking earnestly into each other's eyes, one of
General Grant's hands on the shoulder of his old comrade and friend.
Grant, always faithful to his friends, was urging upon my Soldier, whom
the war had impoverished, the marshalship of the State of Virginia,
which he was gratefully but firmly declining. Later, when the devotion
of the President to his old friends and his confidence in them had given
his enemies an opportunity to criticize with undue severity his habit of
making appointments for friendship rather than politics, I appreciated
still more the generosity and wisdom of my Soldier's refusal. Knowing
the demands upon the President, knowing that acceptance of the
appointment, sorely as he needed it, would create for the administration
a host of enemies, he said:
"You cannot afford to do this for me, and I cannot afford to let you do
it."
"I can afford to do anything I choose," replied the President.
I shall never forget the gratitude in my Soldier's tear-dimmed eyes as
he turned them upon the President, showing his appreciation of the
friendship and sacrifice, nor General Grant's look in return, nor what
those old soldiers did--never, as silently shaking hands and walking off
in different directions they gazed out of separate windows, and I stole
away.
XXXII
UNCLE TOM
One evening just after the New York steamer had blown her three whistles
in honor of my Soldier, as the river steamers always did in passing our
wharf, and had gone around the bend, we saw Uncle Tom, the faithful old
negro fisherman, coming up the hill with a bag over his stooping
shoulders and talking to himself more excitedly than usual.
"Good evening, Uncle Tom," I said, stepping off the porch to greet him.
"What have you in your bag for me?"
"Tarepins--dat's what I got fer you, but I got a piece of my mind fer
Marse George, en ez dis piece of mind mought not agree wid your
temperation I reckon you better g'long in de house en sing some of dem
song chunes while I's mekin' a present of de piece of mind to Marse
George."
As my curiosity was greater than my fear of mental indigestion, I
stayed to share with my Soldier the "piece of mind."
Uncle Tom proceeded to unfold his story to the effect that a
carpet-bagger who had come to Bermuda Hundred was inciting the colored
people against my Soldier and planning with them to visit us in force.
He said that he was a brother of one of the same class of human wreckage
who had visited our community some time before, selling to the negroes
ointment that was advertised to turn them into white people. My Soldier
had reported the enterprising merchant and, with Mr. "Buck" Allen and
Colonel John Selden, had taken to Richmond some boxes of the ointment
and some of the negroes to whom the ointment had been sold, and the
"carpet-bagger" had been put in jail. His brother was now inflaming the
credulous colored people with the idea that my Soldier had caused the
disappointment of their ambitious aspirations.
The man who thus excited Uncle Tom's indignation and apprehension had
lain in the river with his vessel for weeks, sending out his emissaries
to tell the poor credulous colored people that the United States
government had authorized him to promise that to every colored man who
would bring him a good bridle and saddle, thereby showing his fitness
for the possession, should be given a mule to fit the saddle and
bridle, and that he would receive and receipt for the same every night
between the hours of midnight and daybreak. So successful was this
impostor that he had almost made up his load before he was caught, and
there was hardly a bridle and saddle left in all the surrounding
country.
While my Soldier had confidence in Uncle Tom, he did not much believe
that the negroes would dare make an attack upon him. He insisted,
though, that I should not run any risk, but should take our babies and
go to Richmond for a few days. Finding that no persuasion could induce
me to leave him, he consented that we might wait together, fearing, yet
not believing, that they would come.
The third night after Uncle Tom's warning, when we had begun to hope
that he had after all been misinformed, we heard a rapping at the door
and then a low growl.
"That's Rufus, rapping on the door with his tail," said my Soldier. "He
hears something and is warning us. Listen!"
He opened the door and the dog entered, trembling and with great tears
of fear in his loyal eyes. We listened but heard nothing. My Soldier
came in and shut the door.
"Lay the baby down," he said, "and take this, but keep it out of sight,"
handing me a pistol.
His loaded gun was resting on a bracket just above the door. Rufus
stood pointing, his nose nearly touching the panel of the door. My heart
seemed almost bursting from my throat and sounded in my ear like the
beating of a drum. The baby smiled and dreamed aloud. While we listened
tensely there came the sound of footsteps, the rolling of loose dirt and
brickbats.
"Listen! They are coming around the back way and across the ruins of the
old house. I hear a number of steps, but they are uncertain steps. Don't
be afraid, dear; be your own plucky little self."
"I am not the least afraid," I answered, my teeth chattering and my
hands trembling, "not the least, Soldier."
Rufus turned his head and looked at me as if he had heard a stranger's
voice, and then, wagging his tail to reassure me, returned to a dead
point. The sounds became louder and the surging wave rolled nearer.
One who has never beheld a raging sea of black faces filled with
excitement and fury, wild, ignorant, brutal, some distorted with
intoxication, cannot form the faintest idea of the awful sight. They
threatened vengeance against my Soldier, saying that, not satisfied with
fighting against their liberties, he was now trying to keep away those
who would befriend them. They were led by a renegade white man who, when
they reached a point where possible danger lay, retired from leadership
and withdrew to a protected spot in the rear.
My Soldier stepped out on the porch and confronted the mob, who were
yelling, cursing, and brandishing pistols, knives, and all manner of
weapons. Looking at them for a few seconds he said:
"Boys, what does all this mean? What is all this trouble about? You
don't know what you are doing. That cowardly dog there, sneaking and
crouching down behind you to save his own worthless carcass, is not your
friend. For a few handfuls of money he will lead you to steal, lie and
kill. All he wants is what he can make out of you. Don't trust him,
boys. These miserable Yankee scalawags haven't any love for you. They
never owned any negroes. We who owned you are your friends. We have been
brought up together and understand each other."
"Dat's so, niggers; dat's so," cried Uncle Tom, who had come up with the
mob as if he were one of them in spirit. "You better listen to Marse
George. He sho' is tellin' you de trufe, niggers--de gorspel trufe."
"Stand back! Stand back!" cried my Soldier, suddenly starting forth and
waving both hands. "Stand back, I say!"
The negroes fell back on both sides and my Soldier went down between
them to where the white renegade was cowering behind his poor, ignorant,
impulsive black dupes, and, seizing him by the collar, shook him with
all his force. The collar broke and the man fell to the ground. My
Soldier jumped on top of him and called, "Bring me that rope!" pointing
to the clothes-line stretched across the road. "Come, boys, let's tie
the scoundrel!"
After they had securely bound him the General ordered some of them to
pick him up and carry him to the smokehouse and lock him in, which they
did with great satisfaction, their mercurial natures having now veered
completely to the side of my Soldier.
"Now, boys," said he, "get into your boats and go back home, and be
thankful that the bad man locked up there in the haunted smokehouse with
the rats and ghosts has not made you all commit a crime, too, for which
you would be sent to jail."
The reference to the spectral inhabitants of the smokehouse was, for the
colored people, a sufficient bar to their possible change of sentiment
and return to the rescue of their former leader. They believed
implicitly in the uncanny reputation of that house and, to their view,
the ghost of old Grundy, who had hanged himself from its rafters and
who, as the story goes, when the flames were devouring the old colonial
home within a stone's throw of it, came out shaking his fist at them,
thus saving the smokehouse from the fire, was more formidable than the
armies of the whole world. The next morning the sheriff took the
prisoner to Richmond, where he was jailed and promptly brought to trial.
He was found guilty of inciting a riot and was sent out of the country.
Uncle Tom was an old servitor of the Pickett family. He had been at
Turkey Island when the mansion was burned and had contrived to save a
few relics from the ruins. Among them was a medallion which had been
presented to my Soldier's grandfather by La Fayette. It was set in gold,
framed in blue velvet, and hung in the library under La Fayette's
picture. As one of Butler's men was carrying it to the steamer the
medallion fell out, and Uncle Tom picked it up and had saved it all
these years. In his own logical way he explained the selection of the
one to whom it should be given.
"I done studied 'bout dis 'heritance a heap, en I says to myse'f, 'Well,
I gwine to give dis 'heritance to Miss Sally, kase she Marse George's
wife en Marse George he is de oldest chile.' Den I says, 'No, dat ain't
ret; I gwine to give it to Miss Lizzy, kase she Marse Charlie's wife en
Marse Charlie is de youngest chile.' Den I says, 'No, I gwine let de
wifes 'cide fer darse'fs which gwine to have de 'heritance, en I gwine
to give it to de one dat treats de ole man de best.'
"So de Sunday atter dey moved down I goes 'roun' to Miss Lizzy's house
en she axes me 'Howdy?' en axes me how Aunt Lindy, my ole 'oman,
sagashuates. Den she say, 'Uncle Tom, won't you hab a toddy?' En I say,
'Yas'm, Miss Lizzy, thanky, ma'm; ole nigger allus raidy for a toddy.'
Den she mek me a gre't big nice toddy en fetches it out to me herse'f.
Den she say, 'Uncle Tom, don't you want sump'n to eat?' I say, 'Yas'm,
de ole man allus hongry.' Den she fetches me out a pilin' plate of
vitals. Den I say, 'Dat's Miss Lizzy's 'heritance, sho'!'
"De nex' Sunday I goes ter Miss Sally's house, en she axes me 'Howdy?'
too, jest as 'spec'ful as ef I wuz de king, en den she axes me how my
ole 'oman is, too, en I tells her. Den she say, 'Uncle Tom, don't you
want a dram?' 'Yas'm,' I says, 'Miss Sally, de ole man allus wants a
dram.' Den she say, 'Well, g'long back dar to de sideboa'd en he'p
yo'se'f. Dar's de canter of ole apple jack en ole London dock; you jest
go he'p yo'se'f, Uncle Tom.' Den when I comes 'long back she say, 'Uncle
Tom, did you he'p yo'se'f plent'ful?' I say, 'Yas'm, de ole man allus
does dat.' Den she say, 'Ain't you hongry?' I say, 'Yas'm, de ole man's
allus hongry.' Den she say, 'Well, Uncle Tom, you must 'scuse me, but I
fergot to ax you 'bout bein' hongry, so g'long back to de dinin' room en
he'p yo'se'f; dar's plenty er col' ham en fried chicken en pickle
oyschers en 'zerbs en t'ings. I's waitin' for de hunters to come in 'fo'
I puts 'em away, so g'long back en he'p yo'se'f.' 'Name of God,' I say,
'Marse George's wife's gwine to git dis hyer 'heritance, atter all.'
Yas, dat 'heritance is Miss Sally's, sho'."
From the rim of gold around this "'heritance," as Uncle Tom called it,
my Soldier had made two pairs of beautifully carved bracelets, one for
his brother's wife and one for his sister. The miniature was made into a
pin for me, which I still have and wear, not only for its quaint
prettiness and because it is almost the only relic of all those old
household treasures, but in memory as well of Uncle Tom and of La
Fayette's appreciation of the hospitality of old Turkey Island.
XXXIII
"GOD'S 'TISEMENT"
Upon leaving Canada we had expected to lose Annie, our faithful nurse,
but she interrupted our objections to taking her with:
"Howly Fathers! an' sure an' phwat's to become of me widout the baby an'
leastwise, phwat's as bad an' worse, phwat's to become of the baby
widout me?"
We explained that wages were much higher in the States and that we could
not afford to take her. She begged to be allowed to come at any
sacrifice of her own interests, so we finally consented, resolving that
she should lose nothing by her loyalty.
Annie enjoyed the journey and the visit to New York, but at Norfolk the
hundreds of negro stevedores who met the New York steamers frightened
her nearly to death. The few colored people whom she had seen in
Montreal and looked upon as martyrs and saints were of a very different
class from these. When I tried to reassure her she said angrily:
"Oh, the mother of ye that ye are, sure--being afther planning to have
one of these black, howling, writhing craythurs nursing of the boy, the
dirty, twisting bastes! It's meself that's afther the temptin' of
Providence to be a risking of me own grown-up life among such haythens,
a singin' words widout any meanin', the saints save us!"
She was praying and counting her beads.
In my father's home there had been only colored servants, and my father
and brothers, the most courtly of men, could not bear to see Annie
standing in their presence while they remained seated. She was not only
being spoiled by their numerous courtesies and gallantries, but was
embarrassed by them, feeling herself a servant equally with the colored
maids.
Our second child, little Corbell, was three years old when Annie left us
to marry a well-to-do farmer, a young man who, in his rural simplicity,
recognized no superior. I was sorry to part from her, particularly on
account of Corbell's strong aversion to colored people. After
innumerable failures to fill her place a kinswoman, noted for judgment
and care in the selection of her servants, sent me her own nurse until I
could secure one that would please me. The nurse remained three days,
when Corbell took the situation into his own hands and thus explained it
in his prayers: