“Well, it won't be very long before you can go. I have no mother to welcome me; you're a lucky boy, Ralph. But we are ordered to Union Springs, about forty miles or so from here, to do post duty. They are having lively times down there between the darkeys and their former owners, and they need us to adjust matters. The boys are being disbanded as fast as possible, and it will be our turn soon.”
“I shall not be sorry, but I have had many instructive and useful experiences. Life in the army has been to me the best school I ever knew. It has taught me the beauty of discipline, the value of freedom, and an insight into military affairs which I never could have had. It has left me, too, with a warmer admiration for the blessings of a wise, just and stable government.”
“Well, I never gave these things a thought, but I believe you are right, and I don't know but I'm better prepared to take up the business of life than I should have been without this training. But to the case in hand. We leave here in a day or two, and shall be compelled to say good-bye forever to some very nice people we have met.”
“That's true, Steve, and I am sorry it must be so.”
Two days later, and while the daily papers were full of the descriptions of the gorgeous spectacle the review furnished, they moved on to Union Springs. Here they found a turbulent element which only the presence of soldiers could quell. Remaining here until the middle of July, they had orders to proceed to Vicksburg, where they were to be mustered out of the service of the United States.
It was August before they reached Vicksburg, where they were discharged from further service. When Ralph stepped on board the steamer which was to convey them to Cairo, he was overjoyed. His spirits bubbled over like a schoolboy's, and he mingled with the gay crowd of passengers, with a light heart. The water was low, and as they sailed between the banks, the sounds of industry were plainly to be heard, as the blacks worked in the fields.
As they glided along, the merry throngs were amusing themselves, some in the cabin, dancing to the music of the piano, some chatting as pleasantly with the soldiers as if their acquaintance had extended over years, and all light-hearted and careless. A sudden commotion was heard, and the quick, sharp voice of the captain giving orders. Too late—a sudden jar, a trembling of the boat, and a crash, over all of which were heard shrieks of terror and the hoarse shouting of the officers, as the boat, with her hull completely torn away, began to settle into the muddy bottom.
A huge snag, floating down stream, had caught the boat's hull, and completely destroyed it, and the steamer was sinking like lead.
The river was alive with frightened human beings, some of whom had jumped at the first shock, while others had been hurled into the water. Ralph was among the latter, and his terror was intense, as he wondered, with lightning-like rapidity, whether he had passed through so much danger, only to perish miserably just when he felt that he was safe. He was overcome but a moment, however, and seeing the gang plank floating a few yards away, he swam toward it, and seizing one end, he raised himself upon it and began to plan what he should do next. The cries of some were growing feebler. He saw men on the bank putting boats out from shore, and as he floated along he called loudly to those within sound of his voice, trying to encourage them. He caught a lady by her dress and placed her on his raft, then a child floated by, whose light form he grasped firmly, as he laid her on the planks. Thus Ralph managed, by courage and strength, to save fifteen persons on his clumsy but exceedingly useful craft.
He paddled them to shore, and on his way he saw a young black girl who had been on board with her mistress. She was being drawn at a rapid pace through the water, by hanging to the tail of a mule, who was swimming vigorously to land. One moment her head would be under the water, as the mule went along, and the next she would come up to the surface, sputtering and shaking it from her streaming head, but never for an instant relaxing her hold of the frightened animal, who must have wondered a little why he was being used for a tow boat. Ralph's love of fun and the queer spectacle overcame him, even in the midst of danger, and as she went by, he asked her how she was getting along.
“Fust rate, massa. We'll make de passage, I 'low, sooner dan yo' crew will.”
All the passengers were saved, and those who owed their rescue to Ralph's courage, would have made him the hero of the hour, but he modestly disclaimed any praise, for it was by mere luck, he said, that the gang-plank came his way, and any one would have done as much, or even more.
A gunboat was sent to take them up the river, and soon the placid scenery of the Mississippi was exchanged for the ripe fields, the well-tilled farms of Illinois, as they were whirled on the train toward Chicago. The sun poured down his hottest beams, the skies were sultry, and the pavements hot and dusty, when they reached that city, but a reception awaited them, which made the heat and dust seem trifles, as they marched through the lines of people who greeted them on their return from the war. And as the battle flags were borne aloft, some mere tattered rags, some with blood dyed folds, carried by maimed and scarred veterans, whose eagle eyes scanned the throngs to find some one whom they knew and who would clasp them by the hand as in the olden time, there was not a man in those thinned ranks but thanked his heavenly Father that once more he trod the soil of a clime where peace folded her snowy wings, and the sounds of war and discord were heard no more.
When the train rolled into the depot, Ralph heard the shouts and cheers going up for the boys in blue, and a six-pounder was fired off, giving them a salute of thirty-six guns. He felt proud to belong to that stalwart band of men who had borne the brunt of the battle, and whose hands had helped to rear the massive structure of a reunited nation upon an enduring base—freedom for all. And then cheers broke forth from thousands of throats, women's faces grew brighter, children caught the contagion of joy, and men shouted v and hurrahed until they were hoarse. The boys had come home from the war, and their toil and privations were past. Never again, it was to be hoped, should the wave of dissension sweep across the land, but the banner of liberty should float from every tower and dome, for all nations to honor.
The soldiers had caught the glad spirit of welcome, and as they wheeled into line and kept step to the music of their bands, every nerve tingled and burned, and their hearts beat tumultuously. They were to be shown still farther attention, for they were escorted to a hall, where, when they had “stacked arms,” they clasped hands with old friends, and after a half hour passed in renewing old friendships and making new, they were invited to an elegant banquet, to which they all did justice.
To Ralph the scene was a revelation—the brightly lit hall, the perfume of countless flowers, the kind attentions of beautiful women, and the eloquent speeches—all in turn charmed him, and the home-coming seemed, indeed, a delightful fairy vision.
But there were yet three weary days of waiting ere the final forms were gone through with, the regiment paid off, the Board of Trade having assumed the payment, so as to permit the men to return home more speedily, and to Ralph they were the longest and most tedious he ever remembered. But at last his face was turned homeward, and as he sprang from the car, and hurried along the one short mile that divided the dear mother from him, his sunburned and speaking face, the erect form and swinging, elastic step, bore no resemblance to the boy who had come home to die, two years before.
His mother and sisters stood in the doorway, and as they threw their arms around him, and pressed him to their hearts, he knew at last the sweet and tender bliss those two simple words conveyed—“Home again!”
And when, in the years that followed, the simple army boy rose to position and fame in the field he chose for a life-calling, his dearest memories were of the toil and pain and sacrifice of the days he spent in the army. His proudest boast was that, humble as were his services, obscure as he was, he gave all he had, youth, energy, enthusiasm and endurance, to the cause of universal freedom, and dearly as he loved his mother and home, he still more dearly loved the land of his birth.
I want to tell the boys and girls who have followed Ralph's simple story to the end of the war, about a grand body of men and women who worked valiantly for the soldiers while they were fighting in the field. Indeed, it would be unjust to the wives, mothers and sisters of the boys of the days of the war, did I not say something about this noble enterprise.
It has been said that women cannot fight, but even that assertion is not strictly true, for the records of history have furnished many cases of women going to the front with their husbands, disguised as men. But though they did not help swell the quota of soldiers, they did noble deeds—they cheered and comforted the boys in the field, and took tender care of them when sick or hungry. And one of the most powerful outgrowths of this humane and womanly sympathy was the Sanitary Commission.
When the war broke out, in 1861, the women of the North met at once in many places to confer with each other as to the best means for taking proper care of the sick and wounded. They commenced to form societies, and chief among their objects was the wise one of bringing the sick home wherever it was possible, purchasing warm clothes, provisions and little additions to their comfort which the Government could not supply, the sending of books and papers to the camps, and keeping informed as to the condition and needs of the soldiers, by corresponding with officers of regiments, thus learning all they could about individuals.
Such efforts were lofty and patriotic, and coming to the notice of Dr. Henry Bellows and Dr. Elisha Harris, they talked the matter over, and proposed to call a meeting, to get things into shape. They saw the value of the aid which women could give, so selecting Cooper Union. New York City, for a gathering-place, they invited all the societies of women whose aims were similar to meet with them, and this hall, one of the largest at that time, could scarce contain those who came, so earnest was the interest taken in the matter. A permanent association was formed, and a constitution was framed by Dr. Bellows.
The next step they took was to send a committee to Washington, offering the Government their services. General Scott received it kindly, but did not see that it was right to give the members any authority. But they were not discouraged, though it is sad to say that the first days of the Commission were very dark, for they found army officials full of jealousy, for they could not see that anything which could be practical and useful could exist outside of the regulations.
The Government itself had just gone through the hard task of making matters straight between the regular army and the volunteer, and very naturally dreaded any further agitation, or the opening up of any new topic. But after trying so hard to accomplish something, they were glad of even the permission given them to form a commission, which should consult with the government as to the sanitary condition of the people. This was a small concession, but it was the beginning of an immense undertaking.
Still, they were distrusted and suspected, and at this unfortunate juncture, their friend, Surgeon-General Lawson, died, and was succeeded by Dr. Clement Finley, who was bitterly opposed to the movement. Another long struggle ensued, which was ended by permission being given them to form a commission that should act only in connection with officers of the volunteer army, and have no authority whatever. This was permitting them to do good only on their own responsibility. Even Mr. Lincoln, whose heart was ever in the right place, seemed to consider their plans and aims as of small account, but he, with Secretary of War Simon Cameron, yielded, and the association was, on June 13, 1861, made real.
One of its first steps was to obtain the discharge of boys (of whom there were a large number in the army) who were too young for hard service, and sickly men who had been mustered in through careless and hasty examinations.
From this time the Commission grew, until it had so many, avenues of usefulness that it became too vast to attempt to carry out its designs under one head, and so women everywhere were called upon to help in the great work by forming local societies, to carry on their labors. More than 7,000 such sprang into existence, all of whom raised supplies of food and clothes and money to bestow on the brave boys in hospital and field. It is estimated that in the course of the war the Sanitary Commission provided 4,500,000 meals for sick and hungry soldiers. They also had ambulances, and were often found on the field with supplies, and at the very front, rescuing those who were wounded. It had hospitals and depots for the objects of its care. It had camps for soldiers who were convalescent, and not only looked after the physical needs of the boys in blue, but in connection with the Young Men's Christian Association measures were taken looking to their souls' needs, also, and religious reading matter was given them, prayers and addresses were had at the recruiting offices, and a hymn book was compiled, which seemed to be exactly what a soldier needed.
The Sanitary Commission had a ready assistant in the Christian Commission, which came into existence as a working body on November 14, 1861. These two organizations worked harmoniously together, and it can never be told how much good they did.
Among the many women who gave their whole strength with sincerity, we have space for but a few names, although the list might lengthen out indefinitely, for to woman is due the credit of unselfishness and patriotism and earnestness in whatever project she engages. She never gives her efforts grudgingly, but puts her whole soul forth. The women of the North and of the South gave all they had—-their dear ones whose going away clouded the light of home, their services in ministering to the sick, their patient skill in furnishing articles for their personal use. All these things women did for the cause, and much more.
Miss Taylor was born in New York, but lived at the breaking out of the war in New Orleans. She was ever ready to work in the hospitals, and gave liberally of her means to the boys in the army.
It is told of her that it was well known that she loved the old flag, and this caused bitter feelings, a mob once even surrounding her house, and demanding to know her sentiments. She was watching her dying husband. They gave her five minutes to say whether she was for the North or South, and threatened her that if she was for the North, they would tear down her house. Her brave answer was, that she was and ever should be, “Tear my house down if you choose!” she said To their honor, be it said, although very angry with her, they dispersed without doing her any injury.
A young lady who volunteered as a nurse just after the first battle of Bull Run was Miss Hattie A. Dada, also of New York. She worked incessantly through the entire war, part of the time in the Eastern and part in the Western armies. She was taken prisoner by the Confederates after the retreat of General Banks in the Shenandoah Valley, and was held three months. After her release she spent two years in the hospitals at Murfreesboro, a very arduous field of labor.
Philadelphia was a point which received Hi a large number of soldiers who passed through that city, either going to the front or going home on furlough—often disabled. Several ladies established an eating-house for their benefit, where they could obtain meals free.
One of the most tireless workers in this direction was Mrs. Mary B. Wade, who, in spite of her being over seventy years of age, never left her post save for necessary sleep, but waited on them night and day, during the four years of the conflict.
There were many other opportunities for women to work in the cause. Bazars were held, materials were solicited and manufactured for sale, speeches were made, arousing patriotic sentiments, and societies were formed to assist formed to assist the families of soldiers. There was no end to the calls for kindly offices.
Among the foremost of those who turned their talents to this use, was Mrs. Mary A. Livermore, of Boston, the celebrated pulpit orator. Her efforts were given freely to making the Northwestern Sanitary Fair, held at Chicago, an immense success.
Perhaps no woman's name is so widely known, after Florence Nightingale's, of the Old World, as having labored long and unceasingly in the cause of humanity, as is that of Clara Barton. Her arduous services in field and hospital, her untiring devotion to the welfare of the soldier, her efforts to find the dead and missing, so as to send word to their kindred, her weary search in Southern prisons for news of the absent, and her formation of a corps of nurses to work for the helpless in the present war, have endeared her to every humane heart in our land. She knows no distinction—all are alike the objects of her bounteous care. And when the names of those who love their kind go down into history, Clara Barton's will be honored and revered among the first killed at Cold Harbor; it unnerved her so that her own death followed soon, and on the 27th of July, 1864, she passed away to a heavenly shore.
The famous author, Louisa M. Alcott, whose “Little Women” almost every girl in the land has read, was a most devoted nurse in the hospitals, and afterward embodied her experiences in a book entitled “Hospital Sketches.”
There were women on both sides of the contest Margaret E. Breckenridge, a relative of the celebrated Breckenridge family of Kentucky, served constantly in the hospitals, until she was prostrated by illness. Her pure face and lovely manners made the boys regard and call her “The Angel.” She was very ill, but determined to continue her “labor of love,” when the death of her brother-in-law, Colonel Porter, who was who did effective work as spies, for the cause they espoused. Among the most noted of these was Pauline Cushman, a Union spy, who was wounded twice while in the service, and was made a major by General Garfield, and Belle Boyd, who was famous throughout the war as one of the most daring and successful spies the Confederacy had.
The life of spies is one of incessant danger, and demands rare qualities of mind to carry out their designs. Whatever opinion may be formed of their vocation, it is a historic truth that spies are absolutely necessary in time of war.
The scars of the great Civil War we know are healed. We have given our dearest and best, and as one great and united people, we are marching on to a grander future than even the most hopeful could have foretold.
Peace had come to our land, but the man whose splendid generalship had won it for us, was seized with a painful affection of the throat, which soon developed into cancer. The heart of the nation went out to him in sympathy, but human aid could avail nothing.
He was an agonized but patient and uncomplaining sufferer, and during all his illness he worked laboriously at his “Memoirs,” which he had undertaken to write for publication, and finished them but four days before he died. He had passed through a long year of pain and anguish, ended only by his death, which took place at Mt. McGregor, near Saratoga, New York, July 23, 1885.
His funeral was probably the most imposing ever accorded to a citizen of our great Republic. Although twice called to the Presidential chair as a tribute of the love of a grateful people, yet his highest title when death came was that he was a simple American citizen.
His admirers at once set to work to raise a fund to build a tomb worthy of the hero; it was completed, and General Grant's remains were removed to it, and the structure given up to the city of New York, on the 27th of April, 1897, with magnificent ceremonies. The celebration occurred on the recurrence of his birthday, he having been born at Point Pleasant, Ohio, on April 27, 1822. His tomb stands on a height of land at the north end of Riverside Park, New York City, where a fine view of the beautiful Hudson is had, and is a just tribute to a truly great man.
Our dead are not forgotten. The custom of strewing flowers on the graves of the dead soldiers, in the cemeteries of the North and South, has taken a deep hold upon the hearts of the people, and yearly the beautiful ceremony is faithfully observed, Thousands wend their way to the resting-places of the dead and cover the green mounds with those sweet emblems of remembrance and love.
It is a blessed thought that, though they have gone hence, and their battle cry sweeps no more like a whirlwind in the faces of the enemy, yet the sacred anniversary brings back the memory of their heroic deeds, and as the bands of music peal out in solemn strains, and the tongues of orators are heard, recounting the story that will never grow old, the heart is stirred by a tender love for them, and goes out to the dead of the army who wore the gray as well. They were dear to their friends, among their most precious possessions, who mourn them deeply yet. The boys in gray laid down their lives with a complete renunciation of self, and their graves should be honored and remembered.
Memorial Day has become what its name signifies—a mingling of the friends of the Blue and the Gray, and a cordial exchange of mutual courtesies. The graves of both are decked in unison in many of the resting-places of the nation's soldier dead.
The thought of decorating the graves of their dead comrades originated with the Grand Army men, and they inaugurated the custom on May 30, 1868.
Let this hallowed duty be observed in every graveyard of our land. And when the blossoms of beauty are borne to their resting-places, scatter them with lavish hands over the men who wore the Blue and the Gray, alike. They are slumbering peacefully under the green sward, and the sounds of conflict will disturb them no more. As we stand at their graves, let gentle thoughts of love and sympathy drive forever away all harsh or bitter memories. Let us think of them as having finished the battle—it is over, and they have gone to their reward.
The sun shines kindly down upon them; may its beams brighten and bless every living soul on whom they fall.
When the veil fell upon the drama of the Civil War, it was believed that the throes of battle would never again convulse' our land. Peace was welcomed and hopes were indulged that it would be perpetual. Brothers met brothers again in the walks of social and business life, the scars of discord were healed and the rude sounds of dissension were banished.
Yes, sir, I fought with Stonewall,
And faced the fight with Lee;
But if this here Union goes to war,
Make one more gun for me!
I didn't shrink from Sherman
As he galloped to the sea;
But if this here Union goes to war,
Make one more gun for me!
I was with 'em at Manassas—
The bully boys in gray;
I heard the thunderers roarin'
Round Stonewall Jackson's way,
And many a time this sword of mine
Has blazed the route for Lee;
But if this old nation goes to war.
Make one more sword for me!
I'm not so full o' fightin',
Nor half so full o' fun,
As I was back in the sixties
When I shouldered my old gun;
It may be that my hair is white—
Sich things, you know, must be—
But if this old Union's in for war,
Make one more gun for me!
I hain't forgot my raisin'—
Nor how, in sixty-two
Or thereabouts, with battle shouts
I charged the boys in blue;
And I say I fought with Stonewall.,
And blazed the way for Lee;
But if this old Union's in for war,
Make one more gun for me!
Just make it two, old fellow!
I want to stand once more
Beneath the old flag with you,
As in the days of yore
Our fathers stood together,
And fought on land and sea
The battles fierce that made us
A nation of the free.
I whipped you down at Vicksburg,
You licked me at Bull Run;
On many a field we struggled,
When neither victory won.
You wore the gray of Southland,
I wore the Northern blue;
Like men we did our duty
When screaming bullets flew.
Four years we fought like devils,
But when the war was done,
Your hand met mine in friendly clasp
Our two hearts beat as one.
And now when danger threatens,
No North, no South, we know;
Once more we stand together
To fight the common foe.
My head, like yours, is frosty—
Old age is creeping on;
Life's sun is lower sinking,
My day will soon be gone;
But if our country's honor
Needs once again her son,
I'm ready, too, old fellow—
So get another gun.
HE night had fallen slowly and softly. The stars had stolen out, now dancing gaily in one corner of the heavens, and now a cluster of them marched forth in stately fashion. The air was quiet; even the leaves had quit whispering, the breeze had died away, and they nodded sleepily on their stems. Pretty Alice Whiting sat on the porch of the one-story, old style plantation house, and lazily wished the tea-table, whose disorder showed it had been attacked by hungry mouths, would vanish bodily. But it didn't, and she ruefully contemplated the prospect of clearing it up herself, with much chagrin, for such lovely nights, she declared, were not made to work in.
She had come to Memphis from the North with her husband and brother, who had “settled” in that hospitable city. Frank and Will had gone to the lodge, and she had been dreaming of her far Northern home. As she sat there her head rested against the vines which covered the porch, turning it into a perfect bower of beauty. Her dark brown hair waved and curled around a broad, full forehead; her features were far from regular, but the piquant nose and smiling mouth redeemed them, and gave a saucy charm which was more pleasing than set beauty. And as the moon rose in the sky, until her pale beams lit up the darkened porch, flooding every corner, she made as pretty a picture as one would wish to look upon. Something of this thought evidently passed through the mind of the man who had stolen noiselessly through the garden until he stood by her side, for he looked earnestly upon her as if loth to disturb her, and then longingly at the table, which had abundance, even after the appetites of the household had been appeased.
With a start she sprang to her feet. Her heart beat loud and rapid with fear, as she looked at the stranger. Visions of burglars, guerrillas and all the clan, flitted through her brain, and held her dumb, unable to utter a sound, from pure terror.
Certainly the man before her was not one to reassure her, for he was wild-eyed and dirty, and his ragged clothes had fallen away from his thin frame.
“Don't be afraid, ma'am,” he said, in a voice intended to be gentle and assuring; “all I ask is a bite to eat. I'd never hurt a woman.”
She drew a quick breath of relief.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Hungry? Look at me, ma'am. Do you see any signs of the gourmand about me?” pointing to his pinched face.
“I'll give you something to eat—for Eddie's dear sake,” she added, in a faint whisper.
Bringing clean dishes, she poured out a cup of coffee, and bade him sit down and help himself.
“Can I have a wash fust?” he asked.
“Yes, and welcome.” Bringing him a basin of clear cold water and a towel, she had the pleasure of seeing some of the tawny hue disappear, and he seated himself and began to eat most heartily.
It was just after the war, and the city was full of homeless men, who roamed its streets, unable to find work, and actually living on charity. Some of them had no home to go to, and others could not raise the means to take them there.
“Pears like we wus whipped bad,” he said, between the mouthfuls.
She nodded an affirmative.
“I 'lowed General Forrest would help me to get back to Georgy. There's whar I belong.”
“Did you ask him?” The General was a resident of Memphis at that time.
“I went to see him about it, and he couldn't do nothing—said he had no money,” which was a fact, no doubt.
“I tell you, them cussed Yanks fit well. They had good pluck, after all.”
“I think they proved that,” she said faintly, her terror returning, for she saw he thought her a Southerner as well as himself, and she had misty visions of being strangled, the silly girl. “Oh,” she thought, “will Frank never come?”
The man ate as if he had not seen food for many a day, and all the time his discourse was about the Yanks and what he'd like to do to' them. At last his hunger seemed satisfied, and rising, with his ragged, faded soldier cap in hand, he began to thank her profusely for her kindness. Something in her face arrested his attention, for he suddenly paused, and coming a step nearer to her, he said:
“I didn't like to beg, but I was nigh dead. If those Northern cusses hadn't beaten us into poverty, I'd have been home with my old mother now. I don't 'low they'd ever give a crust to a dog to keep life in his body!”
Her face flushed, and a sudden courage came to her. She answered, defiantly—
“Indeed, you do not do us justice. You do not know us.”
“Know you? Ain't you one of our people, ma'am?”
“I am one of those people you despise—a Yankee,” she answered, looking him steadily in the face.
“A Yankee? And you have fed me. Fed a man who has been abusing you right along, and you must hate him?”
“I do not hate you. Oh, no, I could not hate a single human being. You are one of God's children, and so am I.” The scowl of doubt and distrust fled from the man's troubled face. He towered above her, tall, gaunt, but powerfully built.
“But it seems strange you'd be so willing to help me out, when you knew that I was agin your kind. Why did you do it?”
“You were hungry, and asked me for food. I have a better reason than that, even. I am but a girl, but I had a little brother younger than I, the idol of our home, who went to war, as a bugler. He was so frail and boyish that they wouldn't enlist him as an able-bodied soldier, but he would go. He was wounded and taken prisoner in the Battle of the Wilderness, carried to Andersonville, where he died. I made a solemn promise to my own heart that never, while life lasted, would a human being ask me for food in vain, even though I took the food from my own lips to give him. I will keep my word. You are welcome to all I have given you. May you never want.” The man looked down at her, and in a choked voice said: “Ma'am, may I take you by the hand?”
She held out both hands toward him, and as he grasped them and reverently bent over them, a tear dropped on their whiteness, and he walked quickly away into the silence and darkness of the night.