Chapter XI: Foreword: By Rasmus B. Anderson (5)

On a steamer from Cape Girardeau to Helena at table one day when the passengers were dining, among whom were several military officers, I heard a young major of the regular army very coolly remark that it was much cheaper for the government to keep her sick soldiers in hospitals on the river than to furlough them. A lady present quietly replied, “That is true, Major, if all were faithful to the government, but unfortunately a majority of the surgeons in the army have conscientious scruples, and verily believe it to be their duty to keep these sick men alive as long as possible. To be sure, their uneaten rations increased the hospital fund and so enabled your surgeons generously to provide all needed delicacies for the sick, but the pay was drawn by the soldiers from the government all the same. Don’t you think, Sir, it would be a trifle more economical,” continued the lady, “to send these poor fellows north for a few weeks, to regain their strength, that they might return at once to active service?” The laughter of his brother officers prevented my hearing his reply.

This young officer was the medical director at Helena, where I found over two thousand graves of Northeners. Two-thirds of these men might have been saved, could they have been sent north. The surgeon in charge of the general hospital, when asked why he did not furlough some of the men from his over-crowded hospitals, replied that he had at one time and another made out certificates of disability for furlough for nearly every man in his hospital and for hundreds who rested on the nearby hill, but when sent for the signature and approval of the medical director, they had invariably been returned, disapproved; that he had also permitted the men themselves to go with their papers, only to have them severely reproved and ordered back to hospital, and, said he, with tears in his eyes, “many of them never returned, for, broken-hearted, they have lain down by the roadside and died.”

I once heard a person who had been instrumental in giving a dying boy back to his mother, that she might nurse him back to life, relate how it was done. The mother had succeeded in getting her son as far as St. Louis where his papers were to be sent. They came in the usual way to the medical director, were all wrong, of course--not made out according to army regulations and must therefore be returned to his regiment, which was somewhere with Sherman and could not be reached. The mother received the papers with that fearful word “disapproved” written upon them. There was nothing to do but to place her sick son in a St. Louis hospital, and leave him there to die; she must return to her family. She told her story with streaming eyes and a broken heart. The woman impulsively said, “Give me the papers,” and off she went to the medical director’s office. He was a man full six feet high, over fifty years of age, a head like Oliver Cromwell’s, a face stern as fate, and of the regular army. She entered his presence, seated herself, and waited to be spoken to.

Soon it came with, “What do you want?”

“To talk with you a moment, General,” she replied.

“No time for talking.”

“I will wait,” she said.

He wrote a few moments, then said, “May as well hear it now as ever--what is it?”

“I would like to ask you if you had a son in this volunteer service, sent up from the South as far as St. Louis, sick and like to die, and some ignorant, careless officer had made out his furlough papers wrong--”

“What do you want!”

“--would you not be glad, if you were away, if your poor boy could find a friend?”

“What do you want, I say? This is nothing to the purpose.”

“Do you not think that friend ought to do all she could to save your boy?”

“What is all this nonsense?”

“Only this: a poor mother is at the Soldiers’ Home with her dying son. The physicians say he may live if he is sent north, but will surely die if left here. His furlough papers have been sent on, and I have seen them, and know they are wrong. His regiment is with Sherman on the march. Cannot something be done for the boy--for his mother?”

“We have the army regulations, we cannot go behind them. You know if I do, they will rap me over the knuckles at Washington.”

“Oh, that your knuckles were mine. I would be willing to have them skinned; the skin would grow again, you know.”

“Where are these papers?” he said sharply.

“I have them here in my pocket.”

“Let me see them.”

The woman took them slowly out, blank side upwards, and gave them to him. He turned them and his face flushed as he said, “Why I have had these papers and disapproved them. This is my signature.”

She replied tremblingly, “I knew it, but forgive me. I thought maybe when you knew about it, General--and the mother was weeping with the skeleton arms of her boy around her neck--I thought maybe you would do something or tell me something to do.”

“Suppose I do approve these papers, it will do no good. The general in command will stop them and censure me.”

“But you will have done all you could and have obeyed the higher law.”

In the meantime this truly noble man had firmly crossed out his own words and signature, and rewritten under it words of approval, and in a quick, husky tone, said, “Take it and don’t you come here again today.” As the woman raised her eyes to thank him, she saw a scowl on his brow, but a smile on his lips, and a tear in his eye.

“The general in command,” said she in relating the story, “never went behind the medical director’s signature. The boy started for home that night with his mother, full of hope.”

Not long after this an incident occurred showing how easily man yields to the higher law when once he makes humanity his standpoint. An erring boy of nineteen, who had deserted from a Minnesota regiment, changed his name, enlisted in the gunboat service from which he again deserted, again changed his name, and enlisted in a Wisconsin regiment, a little unsteady to be sure, but still a soldier. He was wounded in a battle, honorably discharged from the service, and paid off. On Saturday night he reached St. Louis and found his way to one of her lowest dens, was drugged and robbed of everything he possessed. On Monday he was found tossing from side to side stricken by disease. His surroundings were terrible, and he was lying on an old, filthy mattress which had been thrown into the open hall by the frightened inmates. He was screaming with pain and was at times delirious. As soon, however, as he heard the soothing tones of a human voice, and recognized the hand of kindness on his burning brow, he cried, “Mother! Oh, Mother, forgive me, God forgive me! I have sinned. What shall I do! What shall I do!” Conscience and disease were doing their work.

Softly speaking to him words of comfort and hope, our friend released herself from his grasp, promising to return in half an hour to take him away. This was easier said than done. This soldier was now a citizen, and could not, therefore, be admitted into a military hospital. His disease was of such a nature that in all probability he must die--but his widowed mother, far away, must she know that her darling soldier had died in such a place? God forbid! An order must be had to place him in a military hospital.

The woman goes to her old friend, the medical director, and tells her story in as few words as possible, saying, “General, write an order quick to the surgeon in charge of the Fifth Street hospital, that the boy may be received. I also want an ambulance, mattress, and bedding, and some men to help me move him.”

“Yes, yes, but listen, I have no right, I can’t do it.”

“I know--I know, but please do hurry--I promised to be back in half an hour, and the boy will expect me.”

The general, calling a boy and imitating her voice, said, “Hurry, hurry, boy! Get the best ambulance we have, a good mattress and bedding, and some men and go with Madame and do whatever she bids you to do. Here is the order, what else do you want? Henceforth we do what you wish and no questions asked. It is the easiest way and I guess the only way to get along with you.” The mother mourned her son’s death, but not his disgrace. In after months, this worthy officer by daring to take responsibility performed many acts which will gladden his dying hours.

In this way, one could be snatched from suffering and death now and then, but Oh! the thousands that were beyond the reach of human aid, and the numbers that no private individual power could help--only the great military power! This conviction first led to the thought of providing, if possible, some place where invalids could be sent north, without the trouble of furloughs. The idea of northern military hospitals seemed practicable and so natural that we never once thought the authorities would oppose the movement. For nearly a year this question was agitated and urged with all the force that logic, position, and influence could bring to bear; but all in vain. Hope was well nigh dead within us.

This depression in the South because of the utter failure of the government to provide a way by which the enfeebled soldiers might be restored to strength at last suggested the thought of going directly to the head, to the President. By sending it up by one authority and another, by this officer and that one, we began to feel that the message lost the flavor of truth, and got cold before it reached the deciding power; and because it was so lukewarm he spued it out of his mouth. It is always best if you wish to secure an object, if you have a certain purpose to accomplish, to go at once to the highest power, be your own petitioner, in temporal as in spiritual matters, officiate at your own altar, be your own priest.

I am going to give you another chapter in my own experience, as it was, if I can do so, without the least coloring. There is not a more difficult task than that of relating simple facts in such a manner as to convey an entirely correct impression. The difficulty is increased when the relator is an interested party. I trust I shall not be accused of egotism if I give the exact conversations between Mr. Lincoln and myself, as taken down at the time, for in no other way can I so well picture to you our much loved and martyred president as he then appeared at the White House. As I said before, the necessity for establishing military hospitals in the North had long been a subject of much thought among our people, but it was steadily opposed by the authorities.

By the advice of friends and with an intense feeling that something must be done, I went to Washington. I entered the White House, not with fear and trembling, but strong and self-possessed, fully conscious of the righteousness of my mission. I was received without delay. I had never seen Mr. Lincoln before. He was alone, in a medium sized office-like room, no elegance about him, no elegance in him. He was plainly clad in a suit of black that illy fitted him. No fault of his tailor, however; such a figure could not be fitted. He was tall and lean, and as he sat in a folded up sort of way in a deep arm chair, one would almost have thought him deformed. At his side stood a high writing desk and table combined; plain straw matting covered the floor; a few stuffed chairs and sofa covered with green worsted completed the furniture of the presence chamber of the president of this great republic. When I first saw him his head was bent forward, his chin resting on his breast, and in his hand a letter which I had just sent in to him.

He raised his eyes, saying, “Mrs. Harvey?”

I hastened forward, and replied, “Yes, and I am glad to see you, Mr. Lincoln.” So much for republican presentations and ceremony. The President took my hand, hoped I was well, but there was no smile of welcome on his face. It was rather the stern look of the judge who had decided against me. His face was peculiar; bone, nerve, vein, and muscle were all so plainly seen; deep lines of thought and care were around his mouth and eyes. The word “justice” came into my mind, as though I could read it upon his face--I mean that extended sense of the word that comprehends the practice of every virtue which reason prescribes and society should expect. The debt we owe to God, to man, to ourselves, when paid, is but a simple act of justice, a duty performed. This attribute seemed the source of Mr. Lincoln’s strength. He motioned me to a chair. I sat, and silently read his face while he was reading a paper written by one of our senators, introducing me and my mission. When he had finished reading this he looked up, ran his fingers through his hair, well silvered, though the brown then predominated; his beard was more whitened.

In a moment he looked at me with a good deal of sad severity and said, “Madam, this matter of northern hospitals has been talked of a great deal, and I thought it was settled, but it seems not. What have you got to say about it?”

“Only this, Mr. Lincoln, that many soldiers in our western army on the Mississippi River must have northern air or die. There are thousands of graves all along our southern rivers and in the swamps for which the government is responsible, ignorantly, undoubtedly, but this ignorance must not continue. If you will permit these men to come north you will have ten men where you have one now.”

The president could not see the force or logic in this last argument. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “If your reasoning were correct, it would be a good argument.” I saw that I had misspoken. “I don’t see how,” he continued, “sending one sick man north is going to give us in a year ten well ones.”

A quizzical smile played over his face at my slight embarrassment. “Mr. Lincoln, you understand me, I think. I intended to say, if you will let the sick come north, you will have ten well men in the army one year from today, where you have one well one now; whereas, if you do not let them come north, you will not have one from the ten, for they will all be dead.”

“Yes, yes, I understand you; but if they are sent north, they will desert; where is the difference?”

“Dead men cannot fight,” I answered, “and they may not desert.”

Mr. Lincoln’s eye flashed as he replied, “A fine way, a fine way to decimate the army, we should never get a man of them back, not one, not one.”

“Indeed, but you must pardon me when I say you are mistaken; you do not understand our people. You do not trust them sufficiently. They are as true and as loyal to the government as you say. The loyalty is among the common soldiers and they have ever been the chief sufferers.”

“This is your opinion,” he said with a sort of a sneer. “Mrs. Harvey, how many men do you suppose the government was paying in the Army of the Potomac at the battle of Antietam, and how many men do you suppose could be got for active service at that time? I wish you would give a guess.”

“I know nothing of the Army of the Potomac, only there were some noble sacrifices there. When I spoke of loyalty, I referred to our western army.”

“Well, now, give a guess. How many?”

“I cannot, Mr. President.”

He threw himself around in the chair, one leg over the arm, and again spoke slowly: “This war might have been finished at that time if every man had been in his place that was able to be there, but they were scattered hither and thither over the North, some on furloughs, and in one way or another, gone; so that out of 170,000 men which the government was paying at that time, only 83,000 could be got for action. The consequences, you know, proved nearly disastrous.”

“It was very sad but the delinquents were certainly not in northern hospitals, neither were they deserters therefrom, for there are none. This is, therefore, no argument against them.”

“Well, well, Mrs. Harvey, you go and see the Secretary of War and talk with him and hear what he has to say.” This he said thoughtfully, and took up the letter I had given him, and after writing something on the back of it gave it to me.

“May I return to you, Mr. Lincoln?” I asked.

“Certainly,” he replied, and his voice was gentler than it had been before.

I left him for the war department. I found written on the back of the letter these words, “Admit Mrs. Harvey at once; listen to what she says; she is a lady of intelligence and talks sense. A. Lincoln.” Not, of course, displeased with the introduction, I went on my way to Mr. Stanton, our secretary of war, about whose severity I had heard so much that I must confess I dreaded the interview; but I was kindly received, listened to respectfully, and answered politely. And let me say here, as a passing tribute to this great and good man, that I never knew a clearer brain, a truer heart, a nobler spirit than Edwin M. Stanton. I have watched him by the hour, listening to and deciding questions of minor moment as well as those of greater importance--those upon which the fate of the nation depended, and yet he never wavered. Quick to see the right, he never hesitated to act. His foresight and his strength seemed at times more than human. His place as a statesman will not be filled in this century.

But to return to my interview with him. After understanding the object for which I came, he told me he had sent the Surgeon-General to New Orleans with directions to come up the river and examine all hospitals. In short, I understood he had started on a tour of inspection, which meant nothing at all so far as the suffering was concerned. I told Mr. Stanton, “Our western hospitals have never received any benefit from these inspections, and we have very little confidence that any good would result from them. Any person with discernment, with a medium allowance of common sense and humanity, who is loyal, and has been through our southern river hospitals, knows and feels the necessity for what I ask, and yet you say you have never received a report to this effect. The truth is, the medical authorities know the heads of departments do not wish hospitals established so far away from army lines, and report accordingly. I wish this could be overruled; can nothing be done?”

“Nothing, until the Surgeon-General returns,” Mr. Stanton replied.

“Good morning,” I said, and left him, not at all disappointed.

Returning to Mr. Lincoln, I found it was past the usual hour for receiving and no one was in the waiting-room. The messenger said I had better go directly into the President’s room. It would be more comfortable waiting there, and there was only one gentleman with him and he would soon be through. I found my way to the back part of the room, and seated myself on a sofa in such a position that the desk was between Mr. Lincoln and me. I do not think that he knew I was there. The gentleman with him had given him a paper. The President looked at it carefully and said, “Yes, this is sufficient endorsement for anybody; what do you want?”

I could not hear the reply distinctly, but the promotion of somebody in the army, either a son or a brother, was strongly urged. I heard the words, “I see there are no vacancies among brigadiers, from the fact that so many colonels are commanding brigades.”

At this the President threw himself forward in his chair in such a manner as to show me the most curious, comical face in the world. He was looking the man straight in the eye, with the left hand raised to a horizontal position, and his right hand patting it coaxingly, and said, “My friend, let me tell you something; you are a farmer, I believe; if not, you will understand me. Suppose you had a large cattle yard, full of all sorts of cattle, cows, oxen, and bulls, and you kept selling your cows and oxen, taking good care of your bulls; bye and bye, you would find that you had nothing but a yard full of old bulls, good for nothing under heaven, and it will be just so with my army if I don’t stop making brigadier generals.” The man was answered; he could scarcely laugh, though he tried to do so, but you should have seen Mr. Lincoln laugh--he laughed all over, and fully enjoyed the point if no one else did. The story, if not elegant, was certainly apropos.

As I commenced to tell you everything I remember of this singular man, this must fill its place. The gentleman soon departed, fully satisfied, I doubt not, for it was a saying at Washington when one met a petitioner, “Has Mr. Lincoln told you a story? If he has, it is all day with you. He never says ‘yes’ after a story.”

I stepped forward as soon as the door closed. The President motioned to a chair near him. “Well, what did the Secretary of War say?”

I gave a full account of the interview, and then said, “I have nowhere else to go but to you.”

He replied earnestly, “Mr. Stanton knows very well that there is an acting surgeon-general here, and that Hammond will not be back these two months. I will see the Secretary of War myself, and you come in the morning.”

I arose to take leave, when he bade me not to hasten, spoke kindly of my work, said he fully appreciated the spirit in which I came. He smiled pleasantly and bade me good evening.

As I left the White House, I met Owen Lovejoy who greeted me cordially and asked, “How long are you going to stay here?”

“Until I get what I came after,” I replied.

“That’s right, that’s right; go on, I believe in the final perseverance of the saints.”

I have never forgotten these words, perhaps it is because they were the last I ever heard him utter.

I returned in the morning, full of hope, thinking of the pleasant face I had left the evening before, but no smile greeted me. The President was evidently annoyed by something, and waited for me to speak, which I did not do. I afterward learned his annoyance was caused by a woman pleading for the life of a son who was sentenced to be shot for desertion under very aggravating circumstances.

After a moment he said, “Well,” with a peculiar contortion of face I never saw in anybody else.

I replied, “Well,” and he looked at me a little astonished, I fancied, and said, “Have you nothing to say?”

“Nothing, Mr. President, until I hear your decision. You bade me come this morning; have you decided?”

“No, but I believe this idea of northern hospitals is a great humbug, and I am tired of hearing about it.” He spoke impatiently.

I replied, “I regret to add a feather’s weight to your already overwhelming care and responsibility. I would rather have stayed at home.”

With a kind of half smile, he said, “I wish you had.”

I answered him as though he had not smiled. “Nothing would have given me greater pleasure; but a keen sense of duty to this government, justice and mercy to its most loyal supporters, and regard for your honor and position made me come. The people cannot understand why their friends are left to die when with proper care they might live and do good service for their country. Mr. Lincoln, I believe you will be grateful for my coming.” He looked at me intently; I could not tell if he were annoyed or not, and as he did not speak, I continued: “I do not come to plead for the lives of criminals, not for the lives of deserters, not for those who have been in the least disloyal. I come to plead for the lives of those who were the first to hasten to the support of this government, who helped to place you where you are, because they trusted you. Men who have done all they could, and now when flesh, and nerve, and muscle are gone, still pray for your life and the life of this republic. They scarcely ask for that for which I plead--they expect to sacrifice their lives for their country. Many on their cots, faint, sick, and dying, say, ‘We would gladly do more, but I suppose that is all right.’ I know that a majority of them would live and be strong men again if they could be sent north. I say I know, because when I was sick among them last spring, surrounded by every comfort, with the best of care, and determined to get well, I grew weaker day by day, until, not being under military law, my friends brought me north. I recovered entirely, simply by breathing northern air.”

While I was speaking the expression of Mr. Lincoln’s face had changed many times. He had never taken his eye from me. Now every muscle in his face seemed to contract, and then suddenly expand. As he opened his mouth you could almost hear them snap as he said, “You assume to know more than I do,” and closed his mouth as though he never expected to open it again, sort of slammed it to.

I could scarcely reply. I was hurt, and thought the tears would come, but rallied in a moment and said, “You must pardon me, Mr. President, I intend no disrespect, but it is because of this knowledge, because I do know what you do not know, that I come to you. If you knew what I do and had not ordered what I ask for, I should know that an appeal to you would be vain; but I believe the people have not trusted you for naught. The question only is whether you believe me or not. If you believe me you will give me hospitals, if not, well--”

With the same snapping of muscle he again said, “You assume to know more than surgeons do.”

“Oh, no! Mr. Lincoln, I could not perform an amputation nearly as well as some of them do; indeed, I do not think I could do it at all. But this is true--I do not come here for your favor, I am not an aspirant for military honor. While it would be the pride of my life to be able to win your respect and confidence, still, this I can waive for the time being. Now the medical authorities know as well as I do that you are opposed to establishing northern military hospitals, and they report to please you; they desire your favor. I come to you from no casual tour of inspection, passing rapidly through the general hospitals, in the principal cities on the river, with a cigar in my mouth and a rattan in my hand, talking to the surgeon in charge of the price of cotton and abusing the generals in our army for not knowing and performing their duty better, and finally coming into the open air, with a long-drawn breath as though just having escaped suffocation, and complacently saying, ‘You have a very fine hospital here; the boys seem to be doing very well, a little more attention to ventilation is perhaps desirable.’

“It is not thus; I have visited the hospitals, but from early morning until late at night sometimes. I have visited the regimental and general hospitals on the Mississippi River from Quincy to Vicksburg, and I come to you from the cots of men who have died, who might have lived had you permitted. This is hard to say, but it is none the less true.”

During the time that I had been speaking Mr. Lincoln’s brow had become very much contracted, and a severe scowl had settled over his whole face. He sharply asked how many men Wisconsin had in the field, that is, how many did she send? I replied, “About 50,000, I think, I do not know exactly.”

“That means she has about 20,000 now.” He looked at me, and said, “You need not look so sober, they are not all dead.”

I did not reply. I had noticed the veins in his face filling full within a few moments, and one vein across his forehead was as large as my little finger, and it gave him a frightful look.

Soon, with a quick, impatient movement of his whole frame, he said, “I have a good mind to dismiss every man of them from the service and have no more trouble with them!”

I was surprised at his lack of self-control, and I knew he did not mean one word of what he said, but what would come next? As I looked at him, I was troubled, fearing I had said something wrong. He was very pale.

The silence was painful, and I said as quietly as I could, “They have been faithful to the government; they have been faithful to you; they will still be loyal to the government, do what you will with them; but if you will grant my petition you will be glad as long as you live. The prayer of grateful hearts will give you strength in the hour of trial, and strong and willing arms will return to fight your battles.”

The President bowed his head, and with a look of sadness I can never forget, said, “I never shall be glad any more.” All severity had passed from his face. He seemed looking backward and heartward, and for a moment he seemed to forget he was not alone; a more than mortal anguish rested on his face.

The spell must be broken, so I said, “Do not speak so, Mr. President. Who will have so much reason to rejoice when the government is restored, as it will be?”

“I know, I know,” he said, placing a hand on each side and bowing forward, “but the springs of life are wearing away.”

I asked if he felt his great cares were injuring his health.

“No,” he replied, “not directly, perhaps.”

I asked if he slept well, and he said he never was a good sleeper, and, of course, slept less now than ever before. He said the people did not yet appreciate the magnitude of this rebellion, and that it would be a long time before the end.

I began to feel I was occupying time valuable to him and belonging to him. As I arose to take leave, I said, “Have you decided upon your answer to the object of my visit?”

He replied, “No. Come tomorrow morning. No, it is [cabinet] meeting tomorrow--yes, come tomorrow at twelve o’clock, there is not much for the cabinet to do tomorrow.” He arose and bade me a cordial goodmorning.

The next morning I arose with a terribly depressed feeling that perhaps I was to fail in the object for which I came. I found myself constantly looking at my watch and wondering if twelve o’clock would ever come. At last I ascended the steps of the White House as all visitors were being dismissed, because the President would receive no one on that day. I asked the messenger if that meant me, and he said, “No. The President desires you to wait for the cabinet will soon adjourn.” I waited, and waited, and waited, three long hours and more, during which time the President sent out twice, saying the cabinet would soon adjourn, that I was to wait. I was fully prepared for defeat, and every word of my reply was chosen and carefully placed. I walked the rooms and studied an immense map that covered one side of the reception room. I listened, and at last heard many footsteps--the cabinet had adjourned. Mr. Lincoln did not wait to send for me but came directly into the room where I was. It was the first time I had noticed him standing. He was very tall and moved with a shuffling, awkward motion.

He came forward, rubbing his hands, and saying, “My dear Madam, I am very sorry to have kept you waiting. We have but this moment adjourned.”

I replied, “My waiting is no matter, but you must be very tired, and we will not talk tonight.”

He said, “No. Sit down,” and placed himself in a chair beside me, and said, “Mrs. Harvey, I only wish to tell you that an order equivalent to granting a hospital in your state has been issued nearly twenty-four hours.”

I could not speak, I was so entirely unprepared for it. I wept for joy, I could not help it. When I could speak I said, “God bless you. I thank you in the name of thousands who will bless you for the act.” Then, remembering how many orders had been issued and countermanded, I said, “Do you mean, really and truly, that we are going to have a hospital now?”

With a look full of humanity and benevolence, he said, “I do most certainly hope so.” He spoke very emphatically, and no reference was made to any previous opposition. He said he wished me to come and see him in the morning and he would give me a copy of the order.

I was so much agitated I could not talk with him. He noticed it and commenced talking upon other subjects. He asked me to look at the map before referred to, which, he said, gave a very correct idea of the locality of the principal battle grounds of Europe. “It is a fine map,” he said, pointing out Waterloo and the different battle fields of the Crimea, then, smiling, said, “I am afraid you will not like it as well when I tell you whose work it is.”

I replied, “It is well done, whosever it may be. Who did it, Mr. Lincoln?”

“McClellan, and he certainly did do this well. He did it while he was at West Point.” There was nothing said for awhile. Perhaps he was balancing in his own mind the two words which were then agitating the heart of the American people, words which have ever throbbed the great heart of nations, words whose power every individual has recognized--“success,” and “failure.”

I left shortly after with the promise to call next morning, as he desired me to do, at nine o’clock. I suppose the excitement caused the intense suffering of that night. I was very ill and it was ten o’clock the next morning before I was able to send for a carriage to keep my appointment with the President. It was past the hour; more than fifty persons were in the waiting room. I did not expect an audience, but sent in my name and said I would call again. The messenger said, “Do not go, I think the President will see you now.”

I had been but a moment among anxious, expectant, waiting faces, when the door opened and the voice said, “Mrs. Harvey, the President will see you now.” I arose, not a little embarrassed to be gazed at so curiously by so many with a look that said as plainly as words could, “Who are you?” As I passed the crowd, one person said, “She has been here every day, and what is more, she is going to win.”

I entered the presence of Mr. Lincoln for the last time. He smiled very graciously and drew a chair near him, and said, “Come here and sit down.” He had a paper in his hand which he said was for me to keep. It was a copy of the order just issued. I thanked him, not only for the order but for the manner and spirit in which it had been given, then said I must apologize for not having been there at nine o’clock as he desired me to be, but that I had been sick all night.

He looked up with, “Did joy make you sick?”

I said, “I don’t know, very likely it was the relaxation of nerve after intense excitement.”

Still looking at me he said, “I suppose you would have been mad if I had said no?”

I replied, “No, Mr. Lincoln, I should have been neither angry nor sick.”

“What would you have done?” he asked curiously. “I should have been here at nine o’clock, Mr. President.”

“Well,” he laughingly said, “I think I acted wisely, then,” and suddenly looking up, “Don’t you ever get angry?” he asked, “I know a little woman not very unlike you who gets mad sometimes.”

I replied, “I never get angry when I have an object to gain of the importance of the one under consideration; to get angry, you know, would only weaken my cause, and destroy my influence.”

“That is true, that is true,” he said, decidedly. “This hospital I shall name for you.”

I said, “No, but if you would not consider the request indelicate, I would like to have it named for Mr. Harvey.”

“Yes, just as well, it shall be so understood if you prefer it. I honored your husband, and felt his loss, and now let us have this matter settled at once.”

He took a card and wrote a few words upon it, requesting the Secretary of War to name the hospital “Harvey Hospital,” in memory of my husband, and to gratify me he gave me the card, saying, “Now do you take that directly to the Secretary of War and have it understood.” I thanked him, but did not take it to Mr. Stanton. The hospital was already named. I expressed a wish that he might never regret his present action, and said I was sorry to have taken so much of his time.

“Oh, no, you need not be,” he said kindly.

“You will not wish to see me again, Mr. President.”

“I didn’t say that and shall not.”

I said, “You have been very kind to me and I am grateful for it.”

He looked at me from under his eyebrows and said, “You almost think me handsome, don’t you?”

His face then beamed with such kind benevolence and was lighted by such a pleasant smile that I looked at him, and with my usual impulse, said, clasping my hands together, “You are perfectly lovely to me, now, Mr. Lincoln.” He colored a little and laughed most heartily.

As I arose to go, he reached out his hand, that hand in which there was so much power and so little beauty, and held mine clasped and covered in his own. I bowed my head and pressed my lips most reverently upon the sacred shield, even as I would upon my country’s shrine. A silent prayer went up from my heart, “God bless you, Abraham Lincoln.” I heard him say goodbye, and I was gone. Thus ended the most interesting interview of my life with one of the most remarkable men of the age.

My impressions of him had been so varied, his character had assumed so many different phases, his very looks had changed so frequently and so entirely, that it almost seemed to me I had been conversing with half a dozen different men. He blended in his character the most yielding flexibility with the most unflinching firmness, child-like simplicity and weakness with statesmanlike wisdom and masterly strength, but over and around all was thrown the mantle of an unquestioned integrity.

THE DUTCH SETTLEMENTS OF SHEBOYGAN COUNTY

BY SIPKO F. REDERUS

Dutch settlements have never been numerous in America or in any other country not flying the Dutch flag. The Hollanders, unlike their German and British neighbors, have no natural inclination to roaming and adventure; and being strongly attached to their native soil they have preferred attempting to improve conditions at home to hazarding their fortune in a foreign country. This love of country has changed the Netherlands from a boggy land to a beautiful, productive country with an intelligent, industrious, and artistic people now numbering about six millions.

Unusual conditions, political, economic, and religious, have, however, from time to time caused Hollanders to emigrate to foreign lands, and during the decade 1840-50 many set sail for the United States. After the fall of Napoleon the Netherlands had changed from a republican to a limited monarchical form of government. Belgium reunited with Holland under the name of Kingdom of Netherlands, with William I, son of the former Dutch stadtholder, as king. The union was not successful, and the rebellion of 1830, which resulted in the separation of Holland and Belgium, necessitated large armies which William I kept up for years in the hope of reconquering Belgium. Then in 1825 an inundation of the ocean swept away the dikes, devastated the land, and left thousands homeless and without resources. With the abdication of William I and the accession of his son, William II, conditions did not improve. War and flood turned the thoughts of the suffering lower and middle classes to emigration, and the period from 1840 to 1850 saw the great exodus of Dutch to America.

Religious difficulties arising at this time also caused the emigration of several distinct groups. With the separation of Holland from Spain came separation from the civil and religious rule of the Catholic Church and the adoption of the Reformed Church by the State. The Dutch Reformed Church was Calvinistic in doctrine and Presbyterian in government. German philosophy and French liberalism gradually influenced the lives of members of the State Church; and the monarch and other governmental officers being friendly toward the new thought, the church synods permitted certain changes in the service and doctrine. Again and again the orthodox party tried to overthrow the new order, and after many failures in such attempts left the established church to form a separate ecclesiastical body called the Free Separate Reformed Church.

The civil government, fearing that civil revolution would follow this religious upheaval, opposed the new church, forbade meetings, and fined ministers. With the accession of William II the organization was recognized as a corporate body, but many restrictions were imposed upon it and financial aid, granted other denominations, was refused it. A large number of the Separatists gladly accepted the terms imposed, but others, smarting under the restrictions and foreseeing no relief in the near future, resolved to emigrate to America.

Three separate parties, each under a prominent minister, were formed for the purpose of founding settlements in the United States. Rev. R. C. Van Raalte led his people to the eastern shore of Lake Michigan, where they founded settlements which later came to be among the prosperous communities of Michigan. Among them are Holland, where Hope College was founded, Grand Haven, Muskegon, and Grand Rapids.

Under Rev. H. P. Scholte a party of Dutch immigrants went to southern Iowa and settled a large tract of land purchased from the government. The city of Pella, where Central College is located, is the center of a number of communities, all of which have prosperous industries and beautiful churches of the Reformed faith.

The party led by Rev. P. Zonne secured by purchase from the government a section of country bordering on Lake Michigan, some twenty miles south of the present city of Sheboygan. The settlers arrived in the spring of 1847 after a stormy voyage across the Atlantic, making the journey inland by way of the Hudson River, Erie Canal, and Great Lakes. In settling this region the Zonne party had been preceded by other Dutch families. In 1844 Lawrence Zuvelt and his family settled in a locality four and one-half miles northwest of what later became the Zonne settlement, and in 1846 they were joined by G. H. Koltsée and John Boland and their families.

A tragic event marked the growth of this settlement. In 1848 the _Mayflower_, filled with immigrants to Wisconsin, including many Hollanders, had proceeded as far as Sheboygan when fire was discovered. When, in spite of the crew’s efforts, the flames seemed to be gaining headway, a panic ensued, and many lost their lives in the fire or in the water. Others were landed in pitiful condition on the shores of Wisconsin. Three Hollanders, Wilterdenk, Oonk, and Rensink by name, were among those rescued. Wilterdenk had lost his wife and six children in the catastrophe.

The Zonne community rapidly overtook the earlier settlement in size and development. Cedar Grove was the name given it by Reverend Zonne, because cedar formed the greatest part of the forest near by, in portions of which the Indians still lived. The land was ideal for the painter, poet, and hunter, but the matter-of-fact Hollanders, though belonging to a race which had produced great artists, writers, and explorers, had not come to dream, paint pictures, or follow the chase. The land was valued by the settlers as a means of material improvement; the forest was an obstacle and had to be removed. The work of destruction went on systematically from season to season, and in a short time large clearings could be seen on which were planted maize, wheat, and barley. All of these grains gave rich return, for the soil was fertile and not easily exhausted.

Clearing the ground for the first crop, however, was a difficult process. How to remove the trees after they had been felled with such difficulty was a problem. The settlers could not use all the wood for fuel nor could they convert the tree trunks into lumber. To dispose of the superabundance of wood, these pioneer farmers had to set it on fire, being careful to remove the immense pile to a safe distance from the forest and from the buildings already erected. The hardwood tree stumps remaining in the fields after the trees had been cut were a great obstacle to cultivation of the ground. Digging the stumps out of the field was a long process, and explosives or machinery for doing this work were not then available.

The forest, however, was a help as well as a hindrance. From the logs were made houses and barns, agricultural implements, wagons, and, to some extent, furniture. The forest possessed an abundance of game, wild blackberries, strawberries, wild grapes, and maple trees from which the settlers secured their sugar. Autumn brought a harvest of hickorynuts and walnuts. Cattle thrived in the woodland, and in certain parts flocks of sheep could be kept. From the wool the housewife knitted stockings and wove the homespun for the family clothing.

Communication with other settlements was extremely difficult. For many years the Indian trails and the pathways blazed by the settlers were the only roads, tortuous at all times but almost impassable in winter. The principal trading posts, such as Port Washington and Milwaukee, were far distant from the Zonne settlement--Milwaukee being forty-five miles away--and under the best circumstances the slow-moving oxen made a long journey of it. Often the wagons broke down in the middle of the forest and the men would have to leave their loads in the road and go back home or to the trading post ahead for assistance. The lack of communication was felt most during sickness and especially epidemics, for many a time the physician, after a long, hard journey, would arrive to find his patient dead or beyond help.

Such were the difficulties with which these Dutch pioneers contended during the first years of their colonization. Their energy and perseverance, however, defeated one after another. Gradually the farms were cleared, the newly established sawmills turned out lumber for better houses and barns; water power was utilized for the running of flour mills; and stores were established within easy distance. Artisans joined the settlements, although blacksmiths had been found among the original settlers. As the forest gradually disappeared, old trails were widened, roads were laid out, villages sprang up, and post offices were established.

But in the midst of their growing prosperity the black war cloud gathered on the southern horizon and cast its shadows over this peaceful community. Many of the men, whose fathers had obtained liberty after eighty years of conflict, were aroused, and leaving their plows took up the musket. Sad times now followed, for now and then the news reached the settlement that some son or father had died in battle; but after the years of sorrow the laureled heroes returned to their firesides and a greater prosperity dawned.

One of the men who was conspicuous in the conflict and even more so in the days of peace that followed was Peter Daan. He was born in the Netherlands, in the town of Westkapelle, Province of Zeeland, March 26, 1835. When he was seven years of age his parents emigrated to America and settled in the town of Pultneyville, New York. Later the family moved to Wisconsin and bought a farm in Sheboygan County, near the present village of Oostburg. Peter Daan was one of the first to volunteer on the outbreak of the war, and through his influence and effort caused many to follow his example. In 1867 he commenced his mercantile business on the Sauk Trail, two and one-half miles east of Oostburg. As that town developed, he moved his business there, built a large store, an elevator, a steam flour mill, and later founded the bank of which he became president. He held that office until his death. The people, having confidence in his ability and good judgment, several times elected him president of the town. For years he held the office of justice of the peace, and because of his amicable manner of settling disputes he won the title among the people of “the peacemaker.”

As a young man he became a member of the Presbyterian Church, and later was made an elder, an office which he held until he died. Several times his presbytery elected him delegate to the higher ecclesiastical councils. In 1873 he was chosen a member of the Wisconsin legislative assembly. His death occurred June 14, 1914.

After the Civil War the settlements entered a period of prosperity greater than any experienced before; in fact many of the farmers, receiving high prices for their products during the war, laid the foundation of their wealth in this period. The villages of Oostburg and Cedar Grove expanded, and the new town of Gibbsville was founded three miles west of Oostburg. There a large flour mill, driven by water power, was built, and remains in operation to this day. East of Cedar Grove, on the lake shore, was built a pier where the great vessels could land. The settlement of Amsterdam, which developed here, became an important trading place for a time but was abandoned when the Chicago and Northwestern Railroad entered the territory. Oostburg and Cedar Grove, in both of which stations were erected, received the benefit of the improved communication. Grain elevators and business houses of all kinds were erected, and residences increased and improved. In the country better farmhouses and more spacious barns rapidly replaced the primitive log buildings. The acreage of land cleared, fenced in, and cultivated, increased, and the herds of cattle and flocks of sheep became more numerous. Along the lake shore a profitable fishing industry was developed. Everywhere the result of hard work and thrift was seen. _Luctor et emergo_ (I struggle and rise higher), the motto of the Province of Zeeland from which these Dutch settlers had come, represented the achievements of these people as well as those of their sturdy ancestors.