The Crisis — Complete

  CHAPTER XIV. THE SAME, CONTINUED

  HEADQUARTERS ARMIES OF THE UNITED STATES, CITY POINT, VIRGINIA, March 28, 1865.

  DEAR MOTHER: I arrived here safely the day before yesterday, and I hopethat you will soon receive some of the letters I forwarded on that day.It is an extraordinary place, this City Point; a military city sprung uplike a mushroom in a winter. And my breath was quite taken away when Ifirst caught sight of it on the high table-land. The great bay in frontof it, which the Appomattox helps to make, is a maze of rigging andsmoke-pipes, like the harbor of a prosperous seaport. There are gunboatsand supply boats, schooners and square-riggers and steamers, all huddledtogether, and our captain pointed out to me the 'Malvern' flying AdmiralPorter's flag. Barges were tied up at the long wharves, and these werepiled high with wares and flanked by squat warehouses. Although itwas Sunday, a locomotive was puffing and panting along the foot of theragged bank.

  High above, on the flat promontory between the two rivers, is the cityof tents and wooden huts, the great trees in their fresh faint greentowering above the low roofs. At the point of the bluff a large flagdrooped against its staff, and I did not have to be told that this wasGeneral Grant's headquarters.

  There was a fine steamboat lying at the wharf, and I had hardly steppedashore before they told me she was President Lincoln's. I read the nameon her--the 'River Queen'. Yes, the President is here, too, with hiswife and family.

  There are many fellows here with whom I was brought up in Boston. I amliving with Jack Hancock, whom you will remember well. He is a captainnow, and has a beard.

  But I must go on with my story. I went straight to General Grant'sheadquarters,--just a plain, rough slat house such as a contractor mightbuild for a temporary residence. Only the high flagstaff and the Starsand Stripes distinguish it from many others of the same kind. A group ofofficers stood chatting outside of it, and they told me that the Generalhad walked over to get his mail. He is just as unassuming and democraticas "my general." General Rankin took me into the office, a rude room,and we sat down at the long table there. Presently the door opened,and a man came in with a slouch hat on and his coat unbuttoned. He wassmoking a cigar. We rose to our feet, and I saluted.

  It was the general-in-chief. He stared at me, but said nothing.

  "General, this is Major Brice of General Sherman's staff. He has broughtdespatches from Goldsboro," said Rankin.

  He nodded, took off his hat and laid it on the table, and reached outfor the despatches. While reading them he did not move, except to lightanother cigar. I am getting hardened to unrealities,--perhaps I shouldsay marvels, now. Our country abounds in them. It did not seem sostrange that this silent General with the baggy trousers was the man whohad risen by leaps and bounds in four years to be general-in-chief ofour armies. His face looks older and more sunken than it did on thatday in the street near the Arsenal, in St. Louis, when he was just amilitary carpet-bagger out of a job. He is not changed otherwise. Buthow different the impressions made by the man in authority and the sameman out of authority!

  He made a sufficient impression upon me then, as I told you at the time.That was because I overheard his well-merited rebuke to Hopper. But Ilittle dreamed that I was looking on the man who was to come out of theWest and save this country from disunion. And how quietly and simply hehas done it, without parade or pomp or vainglory. Of all those who, withevery means at their disposal, have tried to conquer Lee, he is theonly one who has in any manner succeeded. He has been able to hold himfettered while Sherman has swept the Confederacy. And these are the twomen who were unknown when the war began.

  When the General had finished reading the despatches, he folded themquickly and put them in his pocket.

  "Sit down and tell me about this last campaign of yours, Major," hesaid.

  I talked with him for about half an hour. I should rather say talked tohim. He is a marked contrast to Sherman in this respect. I believe thathe only opened his lips to ask two questions. You may well believe thatthey were worth the asking, and they revealed an intimate knowledge ofour march from Savannah. I was interrupted many times by the arrivalof different generals, aides, etc. He sat there smoking, imperturbable.Sometimes he said "yes" or "no," but oftener he merely nodded his head.Once he astounded by a brief question an excitable young lieutenant, whofloundered. The General seemed to know more than he about the matter hehad in hand.

  When I left him, he asked me where I was quartered, and said he hoped Iwould be comfortable.

  Jack Hancock was waiting for me, and we walked around the city, whicheven has barber shops. Everywhere were signs of preparation, for theroads are getting dry, and the General preparing for a final campaignagainst Lee. Poor Lee! What a marvellous fight he has made with hismaterial. I think that he will be reckoned among the greatest generalsof our race.

  Of course, I was very anxious to get a glimpse of the President, andso we went down to the wharf, where we heard that he had gone off fora horseback ride. They say that he rides nearly every day, over thecorduroy roads and through the swamps, and wherever the boys see thattall hat they cheer. They know it as well as the lookout tower on theflats of Bermuda Hundred. He lingers at the campfires and swaps storieswith the officers, and entertains the sick and wounded in the hospitals.Isn't it like him?

  He hasn't changed, either. I believe that the great men don't change.Away with your Napoleons and your Marlboroughs and your Stuarts. Theseare the days of simple men who command by force of character, as well asknowledge. Thank God for the American! I believe that he will change theworld, and strip it of its vainglory and hypocrisy.

  In the evening, as we were sitting around Hancock's fire, an officercame in.

  "Is Major Brice here?" he asked. I jumped up.

  "The President sends his compliments, Major, and wants to know if youwould care to pay him a little visit."

  If I would care to pay him a little visit! That officer had to hurry tokeep up with the as I walked to the wharf. He led me aboard the RiverQueen, and stopped at the door of the after-cabin.

  Mr. Lincoln was sitting under the lamp, slouched down in his chair,in the position I remembered so well. It was as if I had left him butyesterday. He was whittling, and he had made some little toy for his sonTad, who ran out as I entered.

  When he saw me, the President rose to his great height, a sombre,towering figure in black. He wears a scraggly beard now. But the sadsmile, the kindly eyes in their dark caverns, the voice--all were justthe same. I stopped when I looked upon the face. It was sad and linedwhen I had known it, but now all the agony endured by the millions,North and South, seemed written on it.

  "Don't you remember me, Major?" he asked.

  The wonder was that he had remembered me! I took his big, bony hand,which reminded me of Judge Whipple's. Yes, it was just as if I had beenwith him always, and he were still the gaunt country lawyer.

  "Yes, sir," I said, "indeed I do."

  He looked at me with that queer expression of mirth he sometimes has.

  "Are these Boston ways, Steve?" he asked. "They're tenacious. I didn'tthink that any man could travel so close to Sherman and keep 'em."

  "They're unfortunate ways, sir," I said, "if they lead you to misjudgeme."

  He laid his hand on my shoulder, just as he had done at Freeport.

  "I know you, Steve," he said. "I shuck an ear of corn before I buy it.I've kept tab on you a little the last five years, and when I heardSherman had sent a Major Brice up here, I sent for you."

  What I said was boyish. "I tried very hard to get a glimpse of youto-day, Mr. Lincoln. I wanted to see you again."

  He was plainly pleased.

  "I'm glad to hear it, Steve," he said. "Then you haven't joined theranks of the grumblers? You haven't been one of those who would haveliked to try running this country for a day or two, just to show me howto do it?"

  "No, sir," I said, laughing.

  "Good!" he cried, slapping his knee. "I didn't think you were that kin
d,Steve. Now sit down and tell me about this General of mine who wearsseven-leagued boots. What was it--four hundred and twenty miles in fiftydays? How many navigable rivers did he step across?" He began to counton those long fingers of his. "The Edisto, the Broad, the Catawba, thePedee, and--?"

  "The Cape Fear," I said.

  "Is--is the General a nice man?" asked Mr. Lincoln, his eyes twinkling.

  "Yes, sir, he is that," I answered heartily. "And not a man in thearmy wants anything when he is around. You should see that Army of theMississippi, sir. They arrived in Goldsboro' in splendid condition."

  He got up and gathered his coat-tails under his arms, and began to walkup and down the cabin.

  "What do the boys call the General?" he asked.

  I told him "Uncle Billy." And, thinking the story of the white socksmight amuse him, I told him that. It did amuse him.

  "Well, now," he said, "any man that has a nickname like that is allright. That's the best recommendation you can give the General--justsay 'Uncle Billy.'" He put one lip over the other. "You've given 'UncleBilly' a good recommendation, Steve," he said. "Did you ever hear thestory of Mr. Wallace's Irish gardener?"

  "No, sir."

  "Well, when Wallace was hiring his gardener he asked him whom he hadbeen living with.

  "'Misther Dalton, sorr.'

  "'Have you a recommendation, Terence?'

  "'A ricommindation is it, sorr? Sure I have nothing agin MistherDalton, though he moightn't be knowing just the respict the likes of afirst-class garthener is entitled to.'"

  He did not laugh. He seldom does, it seems, at his own stories. ButI could not help laughing over the "ricommindation" I had given theGeneral. He knew that I was embarrassed, and said kindly:-- "Now tellme something about 'Uncle Billy's Bummers.' I hear that they have a mosteffectual way of tearing up railroads."

  I told him of Poe's contrivance of the hook and chain, and how theheaviest rails were easily overturned with it, and how the ties werepiled and fired and the rails twisted out of shape. The Presidentlistened to every word with intense interest.

  "By Jing!" he exclaimed, "we have got a general. Caesar burnt hisbridges behind him, but Sherman burns his rails. Now tell me some more."

  He helped me along by asking questions. Then I began to tell him howthe negroes had flocked into our camps, and how simply and plainly theGeneral had talked to them, advising them against violence of any kind,and explaining to them that "Freedom" meant only the liberty to earntheir own living in their own way, and not freedom from work.

  "We have got a general, sure enough," he cried. "He talks to themplainly, does he, so that they understand? I say to you, Brice," he wenton earnestly, "the importance of plain talk can't be overestimated. Anythought, however abstruse, can be put in speech that a boy or anegro can grasp. Any book, however deep, can be written in terms thateverybody can comprehend, if a man only tries hard enough. When I was aboy I used to hear the neighbors talking, and it bothered me so becauseI could not understand them that I used to sit up half the nightthinking things out for myself. I remember that I did not know what theword demonstrate meant. So I stopped my studies then and there and got avolume of Euclid. Before I got through I could demonstrate everything init, and I have never been bothered with demonstrate since."

  I thought of those wonderfully limpid speeches of his: of the Freeportdebates, and of the contrast between his style and Douglas's. And Iunderstood the reason for it at last. I understood the supreme mind thathad conceived the Freeport Question. And as I stood before him then, atthe close of this fearful war, the words of the Gospel were in my mind.'So the last shall be first, and the first, last; for many be called,but few chosen.'

  How I wished that all those who have maligned and tortured him couldtalk with him as I had talked with him. To know his great heart woulddisarm them of all antagonism. They would feel, as I feel, that his lifeis so much nobler than theirs, and his burdens so much heavier, thatthey would go away ashamed of their criticism.

  He said to me once, "Brice, I hope we are in sight of the end, now. Ihope that we may get through without any more fighting. I don't want tosee any more of our countrymen killed. And then," he said, as if talkingto himself, "and then we must show them mercy--mercy."

  I thought it a good time to mention Colfax's case. He has been on mymind ever since. Mr. Lincoln listened attentively. Once he sighed, andhe was winding his long fingers around each other while I talked.

  "I saw the man captured, Mr. Lincoln," I concluded, "And if atechnicality will help him out, he was actually within his own skirmishline at the time. The Rebel skirmishers had not fallen back on each sideof him."

  "Brice," he said, with that sorrowful smile, "a technicality might saveColfax, but it won't save me. Is this man a friend of yours?" he asked.

  That was a poser.

  "I think he is, Mr. Lincoln. I should like to call him so. I admirehim." And I went on to tell of what he had done at Vicksburg, leavingout, however, my instrumentality in having him sent north. The Presidentused almost Sherman's words.

  "By Jing!" he exclaimed. (That seems to be a favorite expression ofhis.) "Those fellows were born to fight. If it wasn't for them, theSouth would have quit long ago." Then he looked at me in his funny way,and said, "See here, Steve, if this Colfax isn't exactly a friend ofyours, there must be some reason why you are pleading for him in thisway."

  "Well, sir," I said, at length, "I should like to get him off on accountof his cousin, Miss Virginia Carvel. And I told him something aboutMiss Carvel, and how she had helped you with the Union sergeant that dayin the hot hospital. And how she had nursed Judge Whipple."

  "She's a fine woman," he said. "Those women have helped those men toprolong this war about three years."

  "And yet we must save them for the nation's sake. They are to be themothers of our patriots in days to come. Is she a friend of yours, too,Steve?"

  What was I to say?

  "Not especially, sir," I answered finally. "I have had to offend herrather often. But I know that she likes my mother."

  "Why!" he cried, jumping up, "she's a daughter of Colonel Carvel. Ialways had an admiration for that man. An ideal Southern gentleman ofthe old school,--courteous, as honorable and open as the day, and asbrave as a lion. You've heard the story of how he threw a man namedBabcock out of his store, who tried to bribe him?"

  "I heard you tell it in that tavern, sir. And I have heard it since." Itdid me good to hear the Colonel praised.

  "I always liked that story," he said. "By the way, what's become of theColonel?"

  "He got away--South, sir," I answered. "He couldn't stand it. He hasn'tbeen heard of since the summer of '63. They think he was killed inTexas. But they are not positive. They probably never will be," I added.He was silent awhile.

  "Too bad!" he said. "Too bad. What stuff those men are made of! And soyou want me to pardon this Colfax?"

  "It would be presumptuous in me to go that far, sir," I replied. "But Ihoped you might speak of it to the General when he comes. And I would beglad of the opportunity to testify."

  He took a few strides up and down the room.

  "Well, well," he said, "that's my vice--pardoning, saying yes. It'salways one more drink with me. It--" he smiled--"it makes me sleepbetter. I've pardoned enough Rebels to populate New Orleans. Why," hecontinued, with his whimsical look, "just before I left Washington, incomes one of your Missouri senators with a list of Rebels who are shutup in McDowell's and Alton. I said:-- "'Senator, you're not going to askme to turn loose all those at once?'

  "He said just what you said when you were speaking of Missouri a whileago, that he was afraid of guerilla warfare, and that the war was nearlyover. I signed 'em. And then what does he do but pull out another batchlonger than the first! And those were worse than the first.

  "'What! you don't want me to turn these loose, too?'

  "'Yes, I do, Mr. President. I think it will pay to be merciful.'

  "'Then durned if I don't,' I said, and I si
gned 'em."

  STEAMER "RIVER QUEEN." ON THE POTOMAC, April 9, 1865.

  DEAR MOTHER: I am glad that the telegrams I have been able to sendreached you safely. I have not had time to write, and this will be but ashort letter.

  You will be surprised to see this heading. I am on the President's boat,in the President's party, bound with him for Washington. And this is howit happened: The very afternoon of the day I wrote you, General Shermanhimself arrived at City Point on the steamer 'Russia'. I heard thesalutes, and was on the wharf to meet him. That same afternoon he andGeneral Grant and Admiral Porter went aboard the River Queen to seethe President. How I should have liked to be present at that interview!After it was over they all came out of the cabin together General Grantsilent, and smoking, as usual; General Sherman talking vivaciously;and Lincoln and the Admiral smiling and listening. That was historic!I shall never expect to see such a sight again in all my days. Youcan imagine my surprise when the President called me from where I wasstanding at some distance with the other officers. He put his hand on myshoulder then and there, and turned to General Sherman.

  "Major Brice is a friend of mine, General," he said. "I knew him inIllinois."

  "He never told me that," said the General.

  "I guess he's got a great many important things shut up inside of him,"said Mr. Lincoln, banteringly. "But he gave you a good recommendation,Sherman. He said that you wore white socks, and that the boys likedyou and called you 'Uncle Billy.' And I told him that was the bestrecommendation he could give anybody."

  I was frightened. But the General only looked at me with those eyes thatgo through everything, and then he laughed.

  "Brice," he said, "You'll have my reputation ruined."

  "Sherman," said Mr. Lincoln, "you don't want the Major right away, doyou? Let him stay around here for a while with me. I think he'll find itinteresting." He looked at the general-in-chief, who was smiling justa little bit. "I've got a sneaking notion that Grant's going to dosomething."

  Then they all laughed.

  "Certainly, Mr. Lincoln," said my General, "you may have Brice. Becareful he doesn't talk you to death--he's said too much already."

  That is how I came to stay.

  I have no time now to tell you all that I have seen and heard. I haveridden with the President, and have gone with him on errands of mercyand errands of cheer. I have been almost within sight of what we hope isthe last struggle of this frightful war. I have listened to the guns ofFive Forks, where Sheridan and Warren bore their own colors in the frontof the charge, I was with Mr. Lincoln while the battle of Petersburg wasraging, and there were tears in his eyes.

  Then came the retreat of Lee and the instant pursuit of Grant,and--Richmond. The quiet General did not so much as turn aside to enterthe smoking city he had besieged for so long. But I went there, with thePresident. And if I had one incident in my life to live over again, Ishould choose this. As we were going up the river, a disabled steamerlay across the passage in the obstruction of piles the Confederates hadbuilt. Mr. Lincoln would not wait. There were but a few of us in hisparty, and we stepped into Admiral Porter's twelve-oared barge and wererowed to Richmond, the smoke of the fires still darkening the sky. Welanded within a block of Libby Prison.

  With the little guard of ten sailors he marched the mile and a halfto General Weitzel's headquarters,--the presidential mansion of theConfederacy. You can imagine our anxiety. I shall remember him always asI saw him that day, a tall, black figure of sorrow, with the high silkhat we have learned to love. Unafraid, his heart rent with pity, hewalked unharmed amid such tumult as I have rarely seen. The windowsfilled, the streets ahead of us became choked, as the word that thePresident was coming ran on like quick-fire. The mob shouted andpushed. Drunken men reeled against him. The negroes wept aloud and criedhosannas. They pressed upon him that they might touch the hem of hiscoat, and one threw himself on his knees and kissed the President'sfeet.

  Still he walked on unharmed, past the ashes and the ruins. Not as aconqueror was he come, to march in triumph. Not to destroy, but to heal.Though there were many times when we had to fight for a path through thecrowds, he did not seem to feel the danger.

  Was it because he knew that his hour was not yet come?

  To-day, on the boat, as we were steaming between the green shores of thePotomac, I overheard him reading to Mr. Sumner:--

  "Duncan is in his grave; After life's fitful fever he sleeps well; Treason has done his worst; nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, Can touch him further."

  WILLARD'S HOTEL, WASHINGTON, April 10, 1865.

  I have looked up the passage, and have written it in above. It hauntsme.