Part 21
Yes, give me the land with a grave in each spot, And the names in the graves that shall not be forgot; Yes, give me the land of the wreck and the tomb— There’s grandeur in graves, there’s glory in gloom; For out of the gloom future brightness is born, And after the night looms the sunrise of morn; And the graves of the dead, with the grass overgrown, May yet form the footstool of liberty’s throne; And earth’s single wreck in the war path of night Shall yet be a rock in the temple of right. FATHER RYAN.
OF GRAVES, OF WORMS, OF EPITAPHS
After the Civil War Clara Barton engaged in a sad mission. Of the Federal soldiers, there were 80,000 missing. Letters from the sorrowing were coming to the President and the Secretary of War, for information. To obtain the names of the missing, how died, where buried, and other information about loved ones, was a tremendous undertaking,—it was Clara Barton’s mission. Many of her personal friends said it was impossible, but President Lincoln gave her encouragement. She also received her Commission from the President, who had published the following:
TO THE FRIENDS OF THE MISSING PRISONERS:
Miss Clara Barton has kindly offered to search for the missing prisoners of war. Please address her at Annapolis, Maryland, giving the name, regiment, and company, of any missing prisoner.
A. LINCOLN.
For four long years she carried in her heart the sorrows of scores of thousands, in unhappy homes. She took the lecture platform and, in public halls, churches and school-houses, she said to the people “let’s talk of graves and worms and epitaphs.”
She had known Sorrow,—he had walked with her, Oft supped, and broke the bitter ashen crust; And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.
Few of the obscure dead had even head-boards at their graves. In the absence of head-boards, the information was obtained through an ex-federal prisoner, who had kept the necessary data. Tens of thousands of letters were exchanged. Through correspondence, private information, personal contact with friends of the missing, and an inspection in the cemetery, the remains of 19,920 of the missing were found, the remains sent home, or the grave marked. The whole expense of this work was about $17,000, the amount advanced by Miss Barton. Later, the Government reimbursed her to the extent of $15,000. So stupendous, so philanthropic, and so successful, was this work that this one mission of love, of itself, would have given Clara Barton eternal fame.
Sad wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat For the loved sound of unreturning feet
And when the oaks their banners wave, Dream of the battle and an unmarked grave! FRANK L. STANTON.
If all that has been said by orators and poets since the creation of the world in praise of women were applied to the women of America, it would not do them justice, for their conduct during the war. God bless the women of America. A. LINCOLN.
I feel how weak and fruitless would be any word of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming; but I cannot refrain from tendering you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save.
A. LINCOLN (in his letter to Mrs. Bixby).
Mothers—wives—and maidens, would there were some testimonials grand enough for you—some tablet that could show to the world the sacrifice of American womanhood and American motherhood in the Civil War! Sacrifices so nobly and so firmly—but so gently and so beautifully,—made. CLARA BARTON.
In the crowded yards of every prison ground, in the dark ravines of the tangled forests, in the miry, poison swamps, where the slimy serpent crawls by day and the will-o’-the-wisp dances vigil at night, in the beds of the mighty rivers, under the waves of the salt sea, in the drifting sands of the desert islands, on the lonely picket line, and by the roadside, where the weary soldier laid down with his knapsack and his gun, and his march of life was ended; there in their strange beds they sleep till the morning of the great reveille.
CLARA BARTON.
To show the sentiment then existing among the people, and the appreciation of the services rendered,—of the thousands of letters received by Miss Barton are appended the following:
GRATITUDE OF A BROKEN-HEARTED MOTHER
“Paw Paw, Van Buren Co., Michigan, July the 5th, 1865.
“MISS CLARA BARTON,
“_Dear Madam_:—Seeing a notice in the paper of the effort you are making to ascertain the fate of missing soldiers from Michigan, I hasten to address you in regard to my son. His name is Eugene P. Osborne. He was a private in the 13th Michigan Regiment, Co. H Infantry; was in Sherman’s Army; left Atlanta last November with the Regiment, became lame soon after leaving there, and fell out the first day of December, near Louisville, Georgia. Since that time we have never been able to learn anything of him, or what has become of him. Those that went with him from this place, and were in the Company with him, have returned, but they know not what has become of him, or what his fate may be. We have endeavored to learn something of him by writing to various persons and places, but as yet we have heard nothing reliable.
“Will you, Oh! will you, aid me in the search for my loved but unfortunate son; if so, the prayers and gratitude of a heartbroken Mother shall be yours. Please answer without delay and tell me if you know aught concerning him, for this cruel suspense is dreadful.
“Respectfully yours,
“Address “Mrs. C. A. OSBORNE, “Paw Paw, Van Buren Co., Michigan.”
I never for a moment lose sight of the mothers and sisters and white-haired fathers, and children moving quietly about, and dropping the unseen, silent tear in those far-away saddened homes.
CLARA BARTON.
THANK YOU FROM MY VERY HEART, HIS POOR HEART-BROKEN MOTHER
“MISS BARTON:
“_Dear Angel of Love and Mercy_:—I address these few lines to you hoping to get some information in regard to my son’s remains. He died in August in the dreadful prison pen at Andersonville. I think it was about the ninth day of the month. Did you find when you were there on the list the name of Edward H. Walton, Co. H, 57th Regt. Massachusetts Volunteers? If so, you will confer a great kindness on me, his poor heartbroken Mother, by giving me what information you can. He went from Worcester, Mass.
“Please let me know if you think I could obtain his remains if I should send for them, as I am very anxious to get them. I shall ever remember your great kindness and labor in thus giving me the comfort that you have seen the remains of the poor murdered ones decently buried. I thank you from my very heart and may heaven bless you while you live and when you have done on earth may the richest of heaven’s blessings be yours through that never ending eternity for which thousands of mothers will pray.
“Very respectfully, “Your humble servant, (Signed) “MRS. DOLLY WALTON, “Worcester, Mass.
“Mother of Edward H. Walton, Co. H, Fifty-seventh Regt. Mass. Vol., died at Andersonville Prison in August, ’64.”
Nor has morbid sympathy been all; out amid the smoke and fire of our guns, with only the murky canopy above and the bloody ground beneath, I have not lost sight of those saddened homes.
CLARA BARTON.
MAY GOD BLESS YOU
“LaFayette, Ind., March 30, 1866.
“DEAR MISS BARTON:—
“Will you please excuse a bereaved Mother again addressing you. I have seen by the papers that you have visited Andersonville. Can you give me any information respecting my dear lost son, my poor boy, as you have visited the graves of the precious dead; did you find the name of John Newton Strain? Oh! it would be a satisfaction, although a melancholy one, to know where his dear remains rest and oh! if I could only have them brought home, my noble boy, no better son a Mother ever had. If he had died on the field of battle it would not have been so hard. He belonged to the New York 2nd Cavalry Co. I. Dear Miss, if you can give me any information it will be most thankfully received and the best I can say is, may God bless you and be your great reward.
“From your afflicted friend, (Signed) “ELIZA FORESMAN. “Lafayette, Ind.”
“Please answer.”
I have too often wiped the gathering damp from pale anxious brows and caught from a shy quivering lip the last faint whispers of home, not to realize the terrible cost of these separations.
CLARA BARTON.
The history of Andersonville is the most sad, and at the same time the most discouraging to our confidence in man’s inhumanity to man, of all the episodes of the Civil War.—_Harper’s Weekly_, Oct. 7, 1865.
The name of Clara Barton will be held in grateful remembrance whenever and wherever human needs are weighed in the scales of human want.—_Washington Gardner._
The winds will blow, the skies will weep, Where fair Columbia’s heroes sleep, And Clara Barton’s name is known Where waves our flag or stands a throne; The work she did fills every heart Wherein affection hath a part; A woman to her country true, She marked the graves where sleep the Blue. —From the dedicatory poem _Clara Barton_, by T. C. Harbaugh.
MY PRAYERS FOR YOU
_“Miss Clara Barton_:
“Please give me some information, if you can, of Frank Pearson of the U. S. Str. _Mackinaw_, North Atlantic Squadron. He was from New York State. I have not heard from him since the last of March. They were then on the Appomattox River and I suppose he fell when Petersburg was captured. I wrote to him the first of April, and not getting any word from him I wrote to his Captain but never heard from him. I had given up all hopes of ever hearing what has happened my _best friend_. When I saw your name, that you were trying to find our lost friends, I took courage, but whether I will have any better luck to hear just a word about _Poor Frank_. Three years and a half on the _Blockade_. Oh! how fast the time was passing; only six months from April until he would have been once more free. I would have willingly died for him, but God has ordered it otherwise and I am not the only one that is mourning for a _Dear Friend_.
“If you can find anything about him please let me know as soon as you can conveniently. My prayers for you. Oh! how lonely! how sad I feel all alone in this cold world. ‘Would that I were resting too!’
“Pardon me and excuse the writing. My eyes are dim. Please answer soon. I am
“Your friend, (Signed) “MATTIE C. BEATTY, “Coal Bluff, Washington County, Penna.”
LXXXVIII
Clara Barton is Clara Barton. DR. SAMUEL WOODWARD.
Clara Barton went to Russia, in 1892, to carry food to the famine sufferers there;—the most widely known American of today.
_Central Christian Advocate._
The total value of contributions from America to Russia in 1892 was estimated at about $800,000. Through all sources, here and in Europe, upwards of 35,000 people were saved from starvation.
PERCY H. EPLER, Author.
Clara Barton gave to the world a greater influence than Catherine of Russia with her millions of subjects—her name will be remembered when that of Catherine shall have been forgotten.
Parsons (Kan.) _Sunday_.
The sign of the Red Cross, in crimson red, had come nearer its true significance under Clara Barton’s direction than it ever did before, whether by Constantine, named, or borne by crusader bands in assaults upon the Crescent. Worcester (Mass.) _Telegram_.
When stricken Armenia called for help in 1896, it was Clara Barton who led the relief corps of salvation and sustenance.
Grand Rapids (Mich.) _Herald_.
Resolved, That we regard Miss Barton the highest representative and purest embodiment of the Christian humanitarian spirit in America. The Church of Martyrs (Armenian Congregational Church). Worcester, Mass.
They knew, in Turkey, we had taken our lives in our hands to come to them, with no thought of ourselves. CLARA BARTON.
No American will hereafter in foreign lands feel any less security since the American National Red Cross has been before them in Russia and Armenia. CLARA BARTON.
When the cry came from Turkey, what man was there in all this land brave enough to lead where Clara Barton went, like an Angel of Mercy? The boundless love of that woman’s heart! God bless Clara Barton! MRS. ELLEN SPENCER MUSSEY.
When the wail of the Armenians and downtrodden of the Oriental World was heard, Clara Barton was among the first to raise the banner of the Red Cross, like the crusader of old and push forward to the scenes of anguish and carnage.
MRS. GEN. JOHN A. LOGAN.
The work Clara Barton did in Asia Minor, and which Col. Hinton designated as the Statesmanship of Philanthropy, was similar to the work along this line she did at the Sea Islands flood, in the Carolinas. THE AUTHOR.
Clara Barton, in Asia Minor, has done a splendid work, sensibly and economically managed. HENRY C. DWIGHT, D.D., American Board of Foreign Missions at Constantinople.
The difficulties of the work in Asia Minor, the perils and discomforts would surely have appalled a less courageous heart than Clara Barton’s. JOS. K. GREENE, Resident Missionary in Armenia.
To Turkey and Armenia—a mission so difficult and perilous that all the world wondered, watched, waited, hoped and prayed for her success, and her safe return to her native land. W. H. SEARS.
To us who have seen so much and worked so long and so hard, it would seem that the Red Cross movement has some “significance”—some connection with philanthropy. CLARA BARTON.
The Red Cross flag has no Christian sense that many suppose. It is broader than Christianity itself, because it has neither prejudice nor bounds; Christian, Mohammedan and pagan are the same in the eyes of the Red Cross. CLARA BARTON.
The principal nations of earth are bound together by the bands of the highest international law that must make war in the future less barbarous than it has been in the past. CLARA BARTON.
Bakashish is the substitute for our “tip” system. To make any headway in Turkey with a hoard of beggars, two words must be mastered: “Yok”—No; and “Hide-git”—Be off with you.
GEORGE H. PULLMAN, Secretary to Clara Barton in Turkey.
The moral support given in Asia Minor was far beyond any valuation. At such a money valuation then, the aggregate value of the relief distribution is nearly $350,000. GEO. H. PULLMAN.
Reticent, constant and efficient, Clara Barton has won the confidence of every government under whose flag she has labored—as in the land of the Crescent and Scimitar—and has done honor to her native land. B. H. WARNER.
No matter how far from home, how lone and desolate, the soldier knows the Red Cross for his own; the glazing eye can discern it and next to God or “Allah” it is his Saviour, the American Annie Laurie of the wounded soldier. CLARA BARTON.
There is, we are happy to believe, a warmth and an appreciation of the Red Cross that brings added honor to the country.
CLARA BARTON.
TURKEY—STATESMANSHIP OF PHILANTHROPY—ARMENIA
“Alone, bereft, forsaken, sick and heartbroken, without food, raiment or shelter, on the snow-piled mountain sides and along the smiling valleys they wander and linger and perish. By scores, by hundreds, they die; no help, no medicine, no skill, little food and, as if common woes were not enough, the Angel of Disease flaps his black wings like a pall.” Such the condition, says Clara Barton, in Asia Minor in 1896; and “Help or we perish,” the cry of the people.
To enter Turkey at this time was an undertaking _too great_ for man; this must be the work of woman. There was one woman equal to the emergency, and she seventy-five years of age. All eyes were turned toward that woman. She was chosen unanimously. Her assistants were to be men but she stood sponsor for man’s conduct, a responsibility the greatest in life woman ever assumes. The deference paid to this woman—_Mirabile dictu_—was some years before a woman was regarded even capable of sitting as member of the American House of Representatives or as Member in the English House of Commons. Did she accept? Nothing too hazardous for her to undertake; she ever was seeking for something to do that no one else would do, no one else could do.
Florence Nightingale sailed for Crimea “under the strong support of England’s military head and England’s gracious Queen;” Clara Barton set sail for Turkey, “prohibited, unsustained either by governmental or other authority,”—destined to a port five thousand miles away, from approach to which even the powers of the world shrank in fear. As Clara Barton, with her four assistants, left New York City, on the S. S. _New York_, “crowded were the piers, wild the hurrahs, white the scene with the parting salutes, hearts beating with exultation and expectation;” longing the anxious eyes that followed far out to sea that band of five fearless American crusaders, on humanity’s mission.
Would she reach Constantinople? The Turkish Minister, resident at Washington, forbade her and her Red Cross band to enter the land of the Moslem. Her Christian presence there was not desired; would not be permitted. Unperturbed, she proceeded on her way. She arrived at Constantinople. She stopped at Pera Palace hotel. She asked for an audience with Tewfik Pasha, Minister of State. She explained; she begged the privilege of self-sacrifice. The High Official listened attentively, then said: We know you, Miss Barton; have long known you and your work. And you shall have it. We know your position, and your wishes shall be respected. Such aid and protection as we are able to render, we will cheerfully render you. I speak for my government. I extend to you my cordial good wishes in your work among our distressed people.
At the interview Clara Barton thus assured Tewfik Pasha: “We have no newspaper correspondent, and I promise you I will not write a book on Turkey. What we see and hear will be confidential—not repeated.” But she didn’t keep faith with the Government—she reported on the dogs. Dogs in Constantinople are held sacred, but not because decorated with a brassard they serve in Red Cross work or otherwise are useful. The streets and plazas day and night are filled with dogs, colonies of dogs. Fond of dogs, she enjoyed telling this story. About to be overpowered by other dogs the Turkish dog flops over on his back, his feet in air to serve as the dog’s Red Cross flag, over a hospital. In the “hospital” he remains until there is an opportunity of escape when, without so much as “by your leave,” he invalids himself home.
The British Legation had a blooded rat terrier, also _sacred_. By chance the terrier slipped out of the yard. Unsuspecting he was “ambushed” and, not knowing Turkish dog strategy, was foully slain. The secretary, in righteous wrath, forthwith imported from England “Bull Brindle,” of a famous fighting breed. The British “warrior” also strolled out on the plaza, _but not by chance_. A colony of several hundred dogs, with confused noises as terrifying as of a “pack of coyotes” hunting prey, massed an attack on the lone “Britisher.” Victory this time was not with the largest battalions. Bull terrier was killing mongrels without mercy or shame, and with as much ease as the terrier had killed rats, and so continuing until four score or more lay dead on the field.
As ranged Achilles in his fury through the field From side to side, and everywhere o’ertook His victims, and earth was dark with blood.
_By chance_, through an opening in the walled fence of the embassy, the secretary was an eye-witness. The natives in numbers, aroused, watched the uneven contest but no one dared to lay hands on the “achilles.” Alarmed over the possible consequences to himself, the secretary rushed to the scene, grabbed Brindle by the collar, led him to the embassy, chained him. A diplomat, the secretary returned to the plaza—explained—expressed regrets—almost _heartbroken_, apologized, but to Miss Barton he confidentially said: “That’s one time I got even with the unspeakable Turk.”