Chapter I: Have the Best Mother in the World (2)

Fred Grant shared his father’s dangers; and although he was one of the nicest boys I ever saw, few knew his real merits and bravery. Like his distinguished father, he was free from bombast, and was quiet and reserved, so his heroic services during the siege were not paraded before the public, as the deeds of many who did not show half the courage he did.

We did not meet very often; but when we did, I always had some kindly words and an approving smile for him. It was fortunate that his devoted mother was not there at that time to see his danger as he went out under the guns daily.

Her anxiety would have been unbearable, as she was a most devoted wife and mother, and the dangers were appalling.

Fred D. Grant ought in some marked way to receive public honor for his wonderful heroism at Vicksburg.

THE SAD FATE OF JENNIE WADE.

One of the many sad incidents of the battle of Gettysburg was the tragic death of Jennie Wade. The family remained in their house, as they could not well leave a married daughter lying on her bed with a new-born infant by her side. Jennie and her mother remained with her, as there seemed to be no way of removing Mrs. McClelland and her baby to a place of safety when the coming of the two armies disturbed the quiet of the quaint old Pennsylvania town of Gettysburg. Amid the clash of arms, when the boom of cannon shook the rock-rimmed hills and echoed among the mountains, and the shock of battle sent a throb of agony along the lines of two armies, they were there in the midst of it all. Mrs. McClelland lay there helpless amid its thunders, while Jennie made bread for the soldiers who crawled to the door begging for something to eat.

A shell came crashing through the house, and cut off one of the posts of the bedstead on which Mrs. McClelland and her infant were lying, but neither was injured.

The mother and sister took a big rocking-chair down into the cellar, and carried her down and placed her in it with her baby, and Jennie went on making bread for the famishing soldiers.

Another shell came screaming into the house; and Jennie, with her hands just out of the dough, lay dead. The mother, bending over her, searched in vain for some token of life, but the pulse had ceased to beat; her loyal heart was forever still.

The battle was now raging in all its wild fury; but the heroic mother, instead of flying to the cellar for safety, took up Jennie’s work, and with Jennie lying dead at her feet, went on with the bread-making till the battle closed.

Jennie Wade had always been planning for her burial. A complete burial-suit was in the house. But after the battle was over, the safety of the army made it imperative that the dead, lying bloated on the battle-field under a scorching July sun, should be buried at once. A squad of stalwart men, grim with the dust and smoke of battle, took Jennie Wade up tenderly, wrapped a flag about her, completely covering her soiled calico gown and her hands all covered with dough, and carried her uncoffined to her grave. But many a soldier who was fed at her hands, and all who have heard the pathetic story, will pause where Jennie Wade lies sleeping to pay her the honor due a heroine of the war.

The mother still lives in Gettysburg; but the surviving daughter, Mrs. McClelland, with her soldier husband, who was on another battle-field at the time of her peril at Gettysburg, is now living near Tacoma, Wash. She has from the first been an active and valuable worker of the Woman’s Relief Corps.

THE HOSPITAL AT POINT OF ROCKS, VA.

When the Union army was massed at City Point in the desperate struggle to capture Petersburg and Richmond, it became necessary to establish a large hospital at Point of Rocks, a few miles above City Point.

Log cabins, put up from timber green from the forest, and tents, served as quarters for the sick and wounded; and three or four thousand of the worst cases were quartered there almost immediately, being soon increased to five thousand. The army operating against Richmond was only a few miles away, and the thunder of their guns could be heard all day long, and the night sky was often illuminated by bursting shells; for two armies were facing each other between Point of Rocks and Richmond, and occasionally a shell would come screaming over to remind us that we were in range of the enemy’s guns. The cooking arrangements, when I reached Point of Rocks, were of the most primitive character. Two log cabins without floors or chimneys, with openings in the roof to allow the smoke to escape, and big kettles hanging over smoking, crackling log fires, were used for cooking purposes. There were great black iron kettles for coffee, tea, soups, meat, beans, and rice.

When I saw the messes served to the sick and wounded men in the wards, as each cabin was called, I did not wonder that the men turned away in disgust.

The tin cups, in which the patients received their tea and coffee, were black and battered; the platters had been used in many a march, and were rusty and greasy. Into each one of these platters was dished out rice, beans, or mixed vegetables, as the men preferred. My mental comment was, “There is not one thing here fit for a well man to eat, much less a sick or wounded man.” The surgeon in charge seemed not to know that things were not up to the proper standard; and I was silent--silent till I was out of the hearing of these men, and until I had a chance to say all that was in my heart to say. The office of the surgeon in charge was in a frame dwelling on the grounds. When I had seated myself in his office, he turned suddenly upon me and questioned, “Well, what do you think of my hospital?”

“Perhaps you would not like to hear; you may wish only flattery,” I answered very kindly.

“Yes; I want to know the truth. If you see anything that can be improved just say so frankly; but you must remember we are under the enemy’s guns, and can’t have the conveniences and luxuries that they have in the big cities.”

“I will not suggest anything that cannot be accomplished here within a week, and yet it would be a great change for the men. I would begin with the kitchen. I would build a kitchen with a chimney; there are plenty of rocks here.”

“Yes, that is so.”

“Then, I would have a floor in it, and two of the largest ranges the market affords.”

“That is impossible; the government would not supply ranges.”

“I will supply the ranges. The Christian Commission is ready at an hour’s notice to honor any order that I am likely to give.”

“The men couldn’t manage them.”

“No, perhaps not; but I would put in two first-class women to do the managing, and the men you have could do the work.”

After very much more talk, he suggested that I might make the attempt.

I wrote immediately to George H. Stuart of Philadelphia, President of the Christian Commission, stating the condition of affairs at the Point of Rocks Hospital, requesting lumber for kitchen, lime for chimney, two first-class ranges, a thousand tin cups and platters, and all the necessary supplies to start a kitchen.

My letter was promptly received, and Mr. Stuart answered by telegram:--

“Everything ordered will be sent this afternoon. Also crates of
dishes. Go ahead. You shall have all you need.”

I had already telegraphed to Mrs. E. W. Jones, one of my most reliable workers, to come to me immediately, and Miss Hattie Noyes, another superior worker.

They both came as fast as steam could bring them, reaching there before the kitchen was completed. A cabin had been prepared for them; but as shingles were not at hand, it was covered with canvas. As the ladies were entirely competent to complete the arrangements, I left them for another point. In less than a week a most remarkable change had been wrought in that hospital. When the first meals were issued from that well-regulated kitchen in the nice white dishes and bright tinware, the sick men, many of them, cried and kissed the dishes, and said it seemed most like getting home. Instead of the slops dished out of vessels that looked like swill-buckets, there came to the beds of the very sick and severely wounded, baked potatoes, baked apples, beef-tea, broiled beefsteak (when allowed), and especially to the wounded, toasts, jellies, good soup, and everything in the best home-like preparation.

The surgeon looked on in utter surprise. But the patients fared better than my heroic women. There came a beating, driving rain, and their canvas roof leaked like a sieve. They wrapped rubber blankets about their clothing, put rubber blankets on their bed, raised their umbrellas, and slept. Of this trial Mrs. Jones wrote me. I quote from her letter:--

“This has been a trying day. All night and all day the rain has
come down in torrents in our quarters and the kitchen, as well as
out-of-doors. Quarts of water ran off our bed while we slept. Almost
everything had to be dried, even to bed and bedding, and in the
kitchen it was even worse. But to-night finds us in good spirits, and
our zeal undampened, though our work has been most thoroughly soaked.

Affectionately,
E. W. J.”

The putting on of new roofs was only a question of a day or two, and they had no more trouble from rain after that.

This hospital became so large that another kitchen had to be established, and three other ladies were added to the force.

These kitchens were the most important in the entire service, except, possibly, the great kitchen at Cumberland Hospital, Nashville, Tenn. The fame of the cookery there extended all along the line. Surgeons came long distances to see for themselves if the reports were true about them. To many it seemed incredible that the cooking for the very sick could be so well managed right along the front lines in these field hospitals.

At my request. General Grant, commanding the United States forces with headquarters at City Point, visited these famous kitchens.

Himself and two of his staff went in disguise.

With his slouch hat drawn down, and coming in citizen’s clothing, no one noticed him. They stood by the door of the largest kitchen, while the dinner was issued. He asked, when the food had been sent out, a few questions and looked at the bill of fare, then followed to the wards to see the patients receive it.

He said, when I next came down from Washington and called at headquarters, that he thought it was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen. He was unusually enthusiastic.

“Why,” said he, “those men live better than I do; and so many of them too. How they manage to cook such a variety for so many hundreds is what puzzles me.”

Then he told me about his going through the wards while they were taking their dinner, and noticing how greatly they enjoyed the food. And when _told_ THAT THE MOST OF THIS FOOD CAME FROM THE COMMUTATION OF GOVERNMENT RATIONS, he was still more surprised.

When he was passing through one of the wards, a convalescing soldier, taking him to be a delegate of the Christian Commission, called out, “Say, Christian, won’t you bring me a pair of socks?”

“I’ll see that you get a pair,” the general responded, and passed out; but he arranged to have the man get a pair of socks.

But where are the noble women who labored there with so much energy and zeal years ago?

Mrs. Jones, a most saintly woman, the widow of a Presbyterian minister, sits serene in the evening of life--her work done and well-done--at Wellesley, Mass., where her daughter is the attending physician of the college.

All the years of her life have been given to benevolent and reform work, and now she waits and listens for the heavenly voice and the rustle of the angel’s wings.

Miss Noyes is in Canton, China, where she has been in mission work ever since the close of the war. A few years ago a beautiful poem written by her, entitled, “Toiling All Night,” was extensively published in this country. She has several times returned on a visit to her native land, and was, when she came to us, the same bright, cheerful, earnest-hearted woman, as when, amid the thunders of battle, she ministered to the sick and wounded soldiers of the Republic.

Fortune has not dealt generously with some of the others who labored there. One, a competent worker, is now poor. She lives in Illinois.

Another married and settled on a land claim. Her husband died from overwork and exposure, leaving her in the wilderness, without help to bury him, for days. After he was laid away, she struggled on, determined to hold the claim; but a fearful snowstorm one winter came, and buried her and her two little girls under the snow, till the top of the house was level with the plain.

They remained buried for many days before being dug out. Some men thought about her, and travelled miles to ascertain if she was all right.

They searched long before they could find her shanty, and when they did, had to dig tons of snow away before they could get her out. She now lives in Colorado.

These years have wrought great changes; but all the workers will look back, no matter how bright or how dark the hours that may come to them, with great satisfaction on their heroic work at Point of Rocks, Va.

THE SWEET SINGER OF THE HOSPITALS.

In the fall of 1864, when the Union army was massing against Richmond, Va., the hospitals in and around Washington were very much overcrowded.

Under special orders from Mr. Stanton, Secretary of War, and with the hearty co-operation of President Lincoln, I had previously assumed the general supervision of the special-diet kitchens of the United States army hospitals all along the lines.

It also devolved upon me to select the lady superintendents for that important service, two for each kitchen. The food for the very sick and the severely wounded, on orders of the ward surgeons, was prepared under their supervision.

In some of these special-diet kitchens as many as 1,000, and in some 1,500 patients, were supplied with carefully prepared food in great variety three times a day.

It will be readily seen that competent women were needed to take the management of this important work. They had not only to command a force of twenty or thirty men in these kitchens, and maintain discipline and good order, but they had, under hospital authority, the entire responsibility of supplying the proper preparation of food, on time and without the least delay or confusion.

Their high position also demanded that they should be ladies of culture and social standing, who could command the respect and confidence of officers and surgeons in charge. It is greatly to the honor of the patriotic women of the North, that scores of accomplished ladies of high social position volunteered to fill these important places.

Great care had to be taken in their selection, and none were accepted unless highly indorsed.

One day there came to my headquarters in Washington a young lady from Pawtucket, R.I. She was twenty-two years old, as I afterwards learned; but she was so childlike in appearance that she seemed much younger.

“I am Lizzie B----,” she said by way of introduction. “I was ready and waiting, and just as soon as I received your letter containing pass and orders to come, I started.”

My heart sank within me. I was expecting Lizzie B----, but I had anticipated meeting a very different-looking person.

Every letter of recommendation had said: “Although Miss B---- is young in years, she is mature in character, and is of the highest type of American womanhood, and will command respect anywhere. We commend her to you as one of our noblest women, who will be equal to any position, and one who will never fail nor falter in the line of duty.”

I had naturally expected a woman of stately and commanding presence, and one who would be equal to any emergency; but she seemed to me to be only a child in years and experience.

“I have ordered up my baggage,” she said with childlike simplicity, “and I have brought my little melodeon with me. I thought it might be useful.”

Sure enough, when her luggage came, and the box containing the instrument was opened, she took out the smallest melodeon I ever saw.

“What shall I do with that dear little child from Rhode Island and her little melodeon?” I said to my secretary, Mary Shelton, now Mrs. Judge Houston of Burlington, Iowa. But she could not solve the problem.

When the heavy work of the day was through, weary and full of care and anxiety, we joined Miss B---- in the parlor. After some conversation, she said,--

“Would you like to have me play and sing?”

We assented, and she sat down at the instrument and began to play and sing.

We were amazed and charmed. It seemed as though the curtains of heaven were lifted, and the songs of an angel were floating down upon us.

The tones of the little melodeon were soft and clear, and the voice of the singer was sweet and remarkably sympathetic. Her notes thrilled one; there was life and spirit in them. After listening to her for an hour or more, weariness and anxiety were gone, and _I knew just what to do with Lizzie B----_.

There were tens of thousands of aching and burdened hearts all about us; and she, with her wonderful gift of song, could lift some drooping spirit, and pour the balm of peace into some wounded, fainting hearts. I took her and her melodeon to Campbell Hospital the next morning, and told her to sing as she had opportunity.

The sick and wounded were quartered in great wooden barracks eighty feet long. There were rows of cots on either side of the room. That very day she went into one of these wards. She had never been in a hospital before; and when she entered and saw the long rows of cots, and all the faces of the men, whether they were lying down or sitting up, turned towards her, she grew faint and dizzy, and her courage almost failed her. She seemed powerless to do anything but to walk on down the long aisle.

At last a soldier called to her from his bed,--

“Say, miss, won’t you write a letter for me?”

It was a great relief to have the oppressive silence broken and to have something to do. As she sat down beside his cot, she asked,--

“To whom shall I write?”

“My mother.”

And he thrust his hand down under his pillow, and drew forth a letter which she read with tears.

“What shall I say to her?”

“Tell her that the surgeons think that I may live a week or two yet.”

“Oh! but you may get well.”

“No; I can never recover. I have a fatal disease.”

“Shall I ask your mother to come to you?”

“No; she cannot come. She is too poor, and she can’t leave the younger children; but she is praying for me.”

“Would you like to have me to pray for you?”

“Yes, miss, if you will.”

Lizzie B---- took one of his thin, cold hands in her own and knelt beside his cot, and offered up one of those low, sweet, sympathetic prayers that come from the heart and ascend straight to the throne of mercy.

When she arose, every man who could leave his bed was standing about the cot, and many were wiping away the tears they could not restrain.

“Would you like to have me sing something?” she questioned, looking kindly into their faces.

“Oh! do--please do,” they all urged; and she sang one of the sweet songs of the gospel that she could sing so well.

Of course they were all delighted, and begged that she would come again.

“I have a melodeon,” she said, as she left them; “and I’ll come to-morrow and have that brought into the ward, if the surgeon says I may.”

As they looked wistfully after her, one of the soldiers, wiping the tears from his eyes, said,--

“She looks like a woman, but she sings like an angel.”

The next day the little melodeon was carried into that ward, and Lizzie B---- sang for them, and the surgeon in charge was one of the auditors. He was so delighted with the influence of her singing, that he gave orders that she be allowed to sing in all the wards of that hospital.

From that time on, she devoted her time to the service of song, till all the hundreds in that hospital had been cheered again and again by her tender words and sweet, sympathetic voice.

The effects of her singing were so uplifting and comforting that I extended her field, and had an ambulance placed at her command that she might visit other hospitals. After that she made the rounds among the hospitals at Washington, going day by day from one hospital to another. Everywhere her coming was hailed with joy. Mothers and wives who were watching hopelessly beside their dying ones were lifted in heart and hope towards God and heaven. Men who had been strong in battle to do and to dare, but who now lay sorely wounded and weak, and heart and flesh well-nigh failing them, were lifted on billows of hope and faith and felt strong to live and to do, or to suffer and die.

Thousands were cheered and saved from despair by this wonderful singer of the hospitals.

I found her afterwards in other work, equal to the management of large interests. She could have taken charge of a special-diet kitchen, but I have always thanked God that her time was given instead to songs in the hospitals. She has changed her name since then. She is now the wife of a Congregational minister; but her voice still holds, by its sweet, sympathetic cadences, the listening congregations.

A YOUNG NURSE AT GETTYSBURG.

Little Sadie Bushman, who was not quite ten years old at the time of the battle of Gettysburg, proved herself a little heroine. Mr. and Mrs. Bushman, learning that the battle would rage in all probability on or near their premises, sent this child with her brother to her grandmother’s, two miles away, while the parents gathered up the other children and undertook to follow.

Sadie took hold of her brother’s hand, and they hurried on as fast as their feet could carry them. But it was not long before their pathway led them into the thick of the fight along Seminary Ridge. The roar of the artillery was continuous, but they could not retreat. There came a blinding flash and a deafening roar. A shell whizzed past them. A gray-haired officer seized the children, and hurried them down the ridge toward their destination.

But scarcely less danger awaited them there, as their grandmother’s house and yard was converted into a hospital. The first work of the child when she reached this place was to hold a cup of water to a soldier’s lips while one of his legs was sawed off.

She was separated from her parents two weeks before they knew she was alive, but all that time she was ministering to the wounded soldiers. She carried soup and broth, and fed those who could not help themselves. She worked under the orders of the surgeons, and was furnished with supplies by the Christian Commission as long as the hospitals were kept open in Gettysburg. She is now a married woman--Sadie Bushman Junkerman--and lives near Oakland, Cal.; but the scenes of the Gettysburg battle years ago are vividly remembered by her.

A BUT’FUL GUV’MENT MULE.

After the fall of Richmond it was found that the people were in a very destitute condition, many of them being almost in a state of starvation.

Every agency was at once used to furnish them with food.

The government issued rations as they came in, and the Sanitary and Christian Commissions distributed large supplies.

Among those who assisted in distributing the supplies of the Christian Commission was the Rev. John O. Foster, now living in Chicago, Ill.

Each day the supplies would be issued according to the amount on hand and the number standing in line.

Slowly the procession would march up with baskets to get what was offered; black and white, rich and poor, old and young, all fared and shared alike.

One evening after the issue had been made and the room cleared, an old colored man, who had been sitting off in one corner on a box, arose and shuffled along towards Mr. Foster. Taking off his old torn hat he made a low bow.

“Why, you’re too late; why didn’t you come up when the others did?”

“No, massa, I izent. Ben’s done gone and got my rashuns. I’se cum har on bizness.”

“Well, what can I do for you?”

“I’ze mos’ ’shamed to tell you, Capt’n,” and he put his old hat to his face and chuckled heartily. Then continued, “You see, Capt’n, day’s sellin’ lot uv guv’ment mules cheap, mighty cheap, mos’ as cheap as dirt, and I cud make a fortin if I could buy one; day’s sellin’ for twenty dollars, massa--but’ful guv’ment mules.” Then there was an awkward pause.

“Well?”

“I thot mebbe you’d len’ me de money.”

Foster laughed heartily.

“How would you ever pay me back?”

“By haulin’; dar’s a big speculation in it; make a fortin right off.”

“Where will you get a wagon?”

“Oh, I’ze got a wagin; one ole massa throde away and I mended up. An’ I’ze got ropes and ebery ting ’cept de mule; dat’s all I want now.”

“You think you will pay me back?”

“Sartin, massa. If I don’t pay, I guvs up de mule.”

Again Mr. Foster laughed at the thought of that mule coming back on his hands.

“Well, I think you ought to have the mule now,” was Foster’s generous reply; “and here is twenty dollars to buy one, but you must pay it back,” and he handed him a ten-dollar and two five-dollar bills.

“My Lor, massa! Neber had so much money ’fore in all my life. If I dun fail to pay it back, de mule’s yourn, sure.”

“Now, don’t allow yourself to be robbed or cheated out of it.”

“No, massa; I hain’t goin’ to let nobody know I’ze got nuthin’ till I git hole on de mule.”

Two days passed, and he saw nothing of the colored man. On the evening of the third day the colored man came in late, and took a seat in the corner on a box. But after all had left the room he came close up to Foster with his hand on his pocket.

“Well, did you get the mule?”

“Yes, massa; I got de most beautifullest mule dat you ever seed--de bes’ kind uv government mule.” Then he took from his pocket two clean, crisp five-dollar bills, and handed them to Mr. Foster. “’Fore Sat’day night I gwine to pay all, I ’spects; I’ze doin’ a busten bus’ness.”

The next Saturday evening the colored man was there; and as soon as the room was cleared he came forward, and, making sure that no one else would see, he took out quite a roll of bills, and from them selected a clean, crisp ten-dollar bill and handed it to Mr. Foster.

“How in the world did you make so much money?”

“I tole you, massa, der war a speculashun in it, an’ der war. Me and de mule and Ben arned ev’ry dollah. He’s the beautifullest mule you ever seed. Ben brung him round so as you could see ’em.”

Mr. Foster went to the door. There, sure enough, stood a good, strong mule, as docile, as quiet and sedate, as though he had not hauled the artillery into the fight, and stood near the big guns amid the thunders of battle; for Ben said, with great pride,--

“Dis mule is one uv dem best mules dat pulled de big guns ober de hills. Oh, he’s an awful strong hos!”

Little Ben sat on a board placed as a seat at the front of the wagon, his white, even teeth showing from ear to ear, and his eyes sparkling with gladness. Ben managed to buy a lot on a back alley and build himself a shanty and a little stable for the government mule.

Judging from his thrift, he is, no doubt, if alive, one of the wealthy colored men of Richmond now.

COULD YOU GET ME A RAW ONION AND SOME SALT?

A little company of my best workers were sent to Wilmington, N.C., in charge of my secretary, Mary Shelton, in the spring of 1865, to care for the sick being gathered there, and the half-starved prisoners being sent in for exchange.

The dangers and hardships of the journey were very great; but after many delays they finally reached there and were able to render valuable service.

Among these chosen workers was Amanda Shelton, now Mrs. Stewart of Mount Pleasant, Ia., who, strong of body and courageous of soul, was untiring in her ministrations. One day, as she walked among the hundreds of the sick and half-starved men, ministering to them as best she could, the surgeon of the ward called her attention to a soldier who lay as one dead.

“That man,” he said, “is starving to death. We can’t get him to eat anything. If you can tempt him to eat he may possibly recover.”

Miss Shelton went to the soldier, and tried to get his attention; but he lay with closed eyes, in seeming indifference. She tried to tempt him by mentioning every delicacy she could think of; but he shook his head and moaned impatiently.

As she remained standing beside his cot, trying to think of something else, he opened his eyes, and, looking her earnestly in the face, asked in pitiful, appealing tones,--

“Say, miss, don’t you think you could get me a raw onion and some salt?”

“Yes, I think I can,” she answered, and hastened away to try to find some onions.

Fortunately, a lot of supplies had just come in, and a sack of onions was among the goods received.

She hastened back with an onion in her hand and a cup of salt. He seized the onion eagerly, and began eating it as one would eat an apple or a peach, dipping it in the salt cup each time as he ate greedily.

The onion and salt was the balm of life to him; and from that time he began to amend, and was soon able to be about the ward and eat everything the surgeons would allow him to.

“Oh, that onion did the business for me! If I ever get home I will raise a big lot of them,” he said.

Shortly afterwards he was shipped North, and as the war soon afterwards closed, no doubt he reached his home safely.

MEN WHO COMMANDED THEMSELVES AND DID NOT SWEAR.

The Mississippi River was very much swollen in the spring of 1863, and a bayou near Helena offered a possible channel in the direction of Vicksburg. It was broad and deep enough to admit the passage of steamers and gunboats, but too narrow for a boat to turn around.

A fleet of steamers, bearing a well-chosen force, and accompanied by gunboats, was sent down this bayou. The fleet of boats had not gone far till the way was found blockaded. Large trees had been cut down, so that in falling they bridged the narrow stream from shore to shore. But determined men can overcome almost any obstacle.

They did not stop to cut the trees to pieces, but loosened them from the stumps, attached ropes and chains to them, and with their hands, by main force, pulled them out onto the dry land. Overhanging branches had to be cut away, and yet all the outworks of the boats were torn to pieces. Finding that this channel of approach was impracticable, a retrograde movement was made. There was but one way to get the boats out, and that was to back out stern foremost.

But while they were pushing on, the enemy had been felling the trees behind them, and the same hard work of pulling them out by human hands became necessary; and it was done.

It was my privilege to see the fleet of boats as it came in to join the force opposite Vicksburg, and a more dilapidated, ragged-looking lot of boats and men was never seen on the earth.

They looked as though they had been through a dozen battles. Little was left of the boats but the substantial framework. The flags hung in tatters; the smoke-stacks had been carried away; the pilot-houses torn to pieces; the guards and outworks were gone; the wheel-houses torn away, and the broken wheels left bare.

As heroes returning from battle, the soldiers of that expedition were welcomed by hearty cheers, as boat after boat came in, by their comrades. One boat, the first to enter the bayou, was the last to come in, and arrived about ten o’clock at night.

The landing was made alongside our Sanitary boat, where the agents and workers of the Sanitary and Christian Commissions were quartered. There were a number of ladies there; and their sympathies were deeply moved, that men who had been out on such hard service should be marched out through the rain and mud at so late an hour to make their camp.

“Why can they not stay under shelter where they are till morning?” was the indignant question that passed from lip to lip, as we stood out on the guards looking down upon them.

By the flambeau that burned with a weird, lurid light, we could dimly see them fall into line and march away, with their knapsacks on their backs and their guns in their hands. But they were a jolly set; and as they plunged into the mud, which was nearly knee-deep, some wag among them cried out, in imitation of boatmen taking the depth of the channel, “No bottom! no bottom!” Every soldier seemed to instantly join in the chorus; and “No bottom! no bottom!” rang out from hundreds of throats, which was soon varied to “No chickens!” “No coffee!” “No ’taters!” as they plunged on in the darkness.

Of course such conduct was not consistent with military dignity, and so the colonel tried to stop them. But the noise was so loud that he failed at first to make himself heard.

“Halt!” he cried in thunder tones.

Immediately there was entire quiet; every man stood still just where he was to hear what his commanding officer had to say; not a foot moved.

“Soldiers, you forget yourselves,” said the colonel. “I know it is raining, and the mud is deep, and the fare and the work have been hard; but you are in the midst of a great army, the commanding general’s quarters are near; what will be thought of such noise and confusion? You misrepresent yourselves; we will march quietly to camp. Forward, march!”

Not a passionate or profane word was spoken. We were all curious to know who the officer was who could command himself as well as his men.

The next day I was at General Grant’s quarters; and I inquired as to who the officer was, and told the story.

“I do not know him,” I said earnestly, “but I am sure he ought to be promoted. A man who can govern himself as he did last night ought to wear a general’s shoulder-straps.”

“That was Colonel Legget. He is a good man, and a very fine officer,” was the general’s reply.

“Do you know, General, that there is a great deal of profanity among the officers and men?”

“Yes, I know; I am sorry that it is so.”

“I am glad to hear you say that you are sorry.”

“I never swear.”

“Indeed! It is encouraging to hear a man of your influence say that. I am glad you have so much moral principle.”

“It is not moral principle,” he answered quickly. “I never contracted the habit of profanity. I should not utter an oath if I knew what I was about; and, not having the habit, I would not likely do so unconsciously. Profanity does not comport with the dignity of the military service.”

“No; nor with Christianity, which lifts a higher standard. I wish you could have said that Christian principles furnished an added restraint.”

“I believe in the Christian system, and have great respect for Christian people. They are doing a grand work in the army; but I am not a Christian as you understand it.”

“I wish you were. You walk amid dangers, and many of us feel anxious about you--many prayers go up for your safety. I would feel that you were safer for both worlds if you were a Christian.”

“I would like to be a Christian.”

Just then General Rawlins, one of the grandest men of the war, who was his chief of staff, came forward with some documents for examination, and the close conversation was interrupted, and I took my leave. I am glad to know that afterward he professed faith in the Divine Redeemer.

HE DIED CHEERING THE FLAG.

A. M. Shipman, an Ohio volunteer, who was confined for eight months as a hostage, was in Vicksburg jail during the siege, and was released when Pemberton surrendered.

For a time he had a fellow-prisoner named John B. Marsh, who had been forced into the Rebel army. Marsh made an attempt to join the Union forces, but was recaptured, and condemned to be shot. Just before his execution he managed to get the following note into Mr. Shipman’s hands:--

“KIND FRIEND,--If ever you reach our happy lines, have this put in
the Northern papers, that my father, the Rev. Leonard Marsh, who
lives in Maine, may know what has become of me, and what I was shot
for. I am to be shot for defending my country. I love her, and am
willing to die for her. Tell my parents that I am also happy in the
Lord. My future is bright. I hope to speak to you as I pass out to
die.”

One of the guards told Mr. Shipman afterward, that when young Marsh was placed in position ready to receive the fire of his executioners, he was told he could speak if he desired to do so. Looking calmly upon the crowd for a moment, he shouted out in strong, clear tones, “Three cheers for the old flag and the Union!” There was no response to his patriotic sentiment. He paused for a moment, and then shouted at the top of his voice, “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” A volley of musketry struck him in the breast, and stopped the beating of his brave, loyal heart.

HOW PRESIDENT LINCOLN RECEIVED THE NEWS OF SHERIDAN’S VICTORY.

I was personally acquainted with President Lincoln, and sat talking with him in his public office when the telegram was brought in announcing General Sheridan’s second victory in the Shenandoah Valley, which resulted in the defeat of General Early.

When the messenger came in, Mr. Lincoln was talking very earnestly; and although he laid down the telegram with the announcement, “An important telegram, Mr. President,” Mr. Lincoln took no notice of it.

The messenger went as far as the door of the room, and seeing that Mr. Lincoln had not taken up the telegram he returned, and laying it a little nearer to him on the desk, repeated,--

“An important telegram, Mr. President.”

But as the president kept on talking, and took no notice of it, the messenger retired.

He was at that time talking of the sanitary condition of the army; the relation of food to health, and the influence of the special-diet kitchen system in restoring the soldiers to health, and its effect in lessening the number of furloughs.

I, too, talked earnestly; as, while pushing the work of the special-diet kitchens, I believed most heartily in furloughs.

But earnest as I was, I was exceedingly anxious to know the contents of that telegram.

There was during that interview, that far away look in his eyes, that those seeing could never forget.

At last he paused and took up the despatch, and after looking over it read it aloud.

“This is good news indeed,” he said, and a smile lit up his rugged features as he went on with his comments.

“This Sheridan,” he said, “is a little Irishman, but he is a big fighter.”

Soon after I arose to take my leave. He, too, arose and stood like a giant before me, as he extended his hand, and said, “Well, success to you. Come in again.”

I did not realize his greatness at that time, but now all the world knows that Abraham Lincoln will stand out a colossal figure as long as American history is read. A thousand years will not dim the lustre of his name or fame.

When his armies were pushed back till they built their camp-fires under the shadow of the nation’s Capitol, and treason glared at him from the near palaces, and the ship of state rocked in the trough of the waves of civil war and social revolution, he stood firm and strong at the helm, with calm, unwavering trust in God. In a rougher mould, he possessed the majesty of a Clay, the sagacity of a Franklin, the wit of a Ben Jonson, the benevolence of a Howard, and the social qualities of the Adamses. No heart in all the land throbbed with a truer, kindlier charity towards all, than did the great heart of Abraham Lincoln when the assassin’s bullet stopped its generous beating. Among philanthropists, in all ages, Lincoln will stand out as The Great Emancipator, who brought liberty to an enslaved and cruelly wronged race; and Right will laurel-crown him as a martyr.

No one bullet ever went forth on a deadlier mission, or struck so heavy a blow to friends and foes alike, as did the bullet that laid Abraham Lincoln low in the dust.

Victor and vanquished, who had come up out of a great struggle with their garments rolled in blood to ground their arms at his feet, and who had received his benediction of peace and good-will to all, were alike mourners when the assassin’s bullet did its deadly work.

It was as though there was one dead in every house. The mourners went about the streets uncomforted. Men forgot their love for gold and their lust for power; statesmen groped about like blind men for some hand to lead. _The world was in mourning_; for all the world knew that he had come to the kingdom for such a time as that.

The lives of such men as Abraham Lincoln are measured by deeds, and not by length of days. His work was wrought in a few short years. He answered the question of the wisdom and solidity of a republican form of government by hurling its betrayers from power. He established human liberty on the immutable rock of intelligent public sentiment. When he proclaimed above the sleeping heroes of Gettysburg, “a government of the people, by the people, and for the people,” he sounded forth an endless jubilee that has echoed and re-echoed through the world, till the people of every kindred and tongue have heard the glad tidings, and human slavery has been branded as a crime, and outlawed by all the civilized nations of the earth.

The saviour of his people, the liberator of the oppressed, the great-hearted friend of humanity, he will stand out a colossal figure in history while men love liberty more than life, while men love freedom more than chains, and while human sympathy links us to each other and draws us toward God and heaven.

It seems fitting, as there was not one of all the millions who loved him, and who would have shielded him at any cost, but knew not of his peril, that the flag he loved should have become his avenger, and caught the foot of the assassin in its loyal folds, and hurled him away to certain death. That flag, kept securely in a glass case, is held sacred in the treasure-house of the nation. The swift-footed years have gone by, till _twenty-nine_ have passed; but Lincoln is not forgotten: his memory is as fresh and sweet as it was at the first.

The robins come to build their nests, and the bluebirds sing their sweet spring songs, just as they did twenty-nine years ago this April-time; but he is not forgotten, for his work goes on. The flag that Lincoln upheld is the banner honored of all nations, the principles he sustained and taught are more and more becoming the heritage of the world, and will be universal.

HOW I GOT THE COTTON.

A few days after the first fleet ran the blockade at Vicksburg, another fleet, composed entirely of wooden steamers, ran through that fiery channel.

The plans of the government coming to my knowledge, I sent a note to the medical director, offering to ship a lot of hospital supplies, and asking him to designate the boat on which I should ship them. My note came back indorsed,--

“Send supplies down on the _Tigress_.”

I still have that letter on file.

The _Tigress_ was a trim, stanch little craft which General Grant had used for headquarters. And feeling sure the swift, trim little steamer would make the passage safely, I shipped a heavy lot of supplies on her.

There were six wooden steamers, with barges in tow, laden with army supplies.

On the night of the 26th of April, 1863, they ran the blockade.

All the important machinery was protected by bales of cotton and bales of hay.

All the boats got through safely, except the _Tigress_.

In the midst of the fiery channel a solid shot cut through the heavy gunwales of the barge she was towing, and went through her hull, just below the water-level. Her crew deserted her, and made their escape in the small boats which were there for that purpose.

She filled with water so slowly that she drifted down into the Union lines before she sank, sinking near the shore on the Louisiana side of the river.

Two days afterwards I received a letter from an Iowa colonel, whose name I have forgotten, whose regiment was in camp opposite where the _Tigress_ sank, informing me that the men of his command were willing to wade out neck-deep and secure the cotton about the engine of the _Tigress_, if the commanding general would give it to me for sanitary purposes; and that as he was coming up to Young’s Point with empty wagons for supplies, he would gladly deliver it there.

I was very much perplexed as to what I had best do, but finally sent the colonel’s letter to General Grant, who had gone below Vicksburg with his army, with a brief letter, saying that “If the granting of this request is entirely consistent with your sense of honor, and the best interest of yourself and of the government, I would be glad to receive the cotton, as I shipped a heavy lot of supplies on the _Tigress_, and they have all been lost.”

As soon as my letter was received, the order was issued, and sent up by a special messenger. I sent it immediately to that generous Iowa colonel, with a most kindly message.

I do not know how deep the Iowa soldiers waded out to secure the cotton; but I do know that a heavy lot came up in good condition very promptly, and that I shipped it to St. Louis to Partrage & Co. for sale, and that it was sold for $1,950, which I charged to my account, and which enabled me to more than double the amount of supplies I had lost.

I see by bills in my possession that I bought immense quantities of supplies in St. Louis. There is one bill of seventy-five bushels of dried apples, while all the onions in the market were bought up, and lemons and other antiscorbutics; and when our forces surrounded Vicksburg, heavy supplies were rushed in to meet their pressing wants, especially those who were sick and wounded in hospital and camp.

Somehow I lost the address of that Iowa colonel; but although more than thirty years have passed, I have never ceased to feel the most profound gratitude to that colonel and his men for their heroic services. If this should fall under the eyes of any of them, I should be very glad to hear from them, and to thank them personally.

THE SEQUEL TO “UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.”

The name of Harriet Beecher Stowe recalls the story of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” It was a story that thrilled and moved the people of this country as no other story has ever done. Its influence was not a sentimental and transitory one. The shafts of truth were sent home to men’s consciences, and were abiding; they live to-day.

It may not, however, be generally known that the hero of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” _did not die till a few years ago_--in 1883.

I knew him personally, and have heard the story from his own lips. Mrs. Stowe was acquainted with Uncle Tom, and read a sketch of his life which had been published by the Anti-Slavery Society before she wrote her book.

His history and work after the beating he had received, which brought him down to death’s door, are more remarkable than those that had preceded, which she records, and where she leaves him dead. He recovered, and afterwards had an opportunity to escape with his family from slavery. He used such sagacity in planning his journey, preparing for months for the great event, that he was able to elude his pursuers, and reach Canada in safety. Two of his four children were too small to travel on foot such a long journey. So he made a sack with straps over his shoulders, and carried them on his back out of slavery. At times his back was so sore, from the heat and friction, that the blood ran down to his heels.

It was a heroic effort for freedom for himself, and his children, and his wife.

He was, as far as I am able to judge, the most remarkable colored man that has ever lived on this continent.

His home, which I have visited, was on the Sydenham River, near the town of Dresden, Ontario, Canada. It was a most comfortable one.

He did not know one letter from another when he reached Canada. He became a scholar, and in a few years spoke the English language correctly and without the Southern accent.

He had neither money nor credit when he settled in Canada, but he owned at the time of his death one of the finest farms in the Dominion.

He had never studied oratory, but he became one of the most eloquent speakers in Canada and England. He could fill Exeter Hall, England, without effort. Lords and ladies entertained him at their castles, and on invitation of Queen Victoria he visited her at Windsor Palace.

His name was Josiah Henson. I visited him in August, 1882, at his home. He was then nearly ninety-three years of age. In March, 1883, having turned into his ninety-fourth year, he died. His mind was clear, his conversation intelligent and logical. The pathetic story of his running away from slavery would have been, if touched by Mrs. Stowe’s pen, far in advance of anything in “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”

He was a friend of the slaves, and for several years before, and especially during the war, was one of the conductors and guides on the underground railroad to Canada.

He founded a colony near Dresden.

He was well acquainted with Mrs. Stowe, and frequently visited her at her home in Boston.

He wrote his life before she wrote “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”

His anti-slavery speeches in England won him a great reputation for oratory.

The last time he was in London, Queen Victoria invited him to an interview with her at Windsor Palace; and after lunch was served to him and his party, he was ushered into the presence of the Queen, in the great drawing-room of the palace, where all the lords- and ladies-in-waiting had been gathered in. The interview was a most interesting one.

When she told him that she was glad to see him, and spoke appreciatively of his services, he responded easily and frankly:--