Part 15

I returned to Baltimore the afternoon of the same day, without stopping at the camp of paroled prisoners as I had designed, for the rain was falling almost in torrents when the train passed through the camp; consequently my contemplated visit to those poor paroled prisoners was never made--something I shall ever look back upon with regret. At Baltimore, I made another tour through the hospitals, distributing sundry articles, which I promised at my former visit, and then returned to Washington, where a certain number of hospitals were assigned me as my special field of labor; yet I did not confine myself entirely to these, but made several visits to the surrounding camps with supplies, not only for those sick in the regimental hospitals, but also in their quarters. Soon the hospitals in the city began to be broken up, and before the close of the month of June, several were entirely discontinued. I can never efface from memory the feelings of loneliness experienced in passing through those empty hospitals. Each ward seemed like a haunted house, where the spirits of the departed still lingered. How suggestive even the number of these barracks or tents, many of which would bring to mind vivid recollections of painful scenes therein witnessed. In one, even now, I see the wasting form of Cyrus Cobb: a severe wound is sapping the very fountain of life; all his bright dreams of home, of that dear mother he so loved, and of whom he daily spoke, of other kindred and loved ones, of future plans and prospects, vanish at the approach of death; but we trust he has entered a better than any earthly home--even an heavenly. Near his cot I see a lingering consumptive--a Maryland soldier--the unnatural brilliancy of whose eye admonishes us all that the time of his departure is at hand.

In another ward lies one, whose beaming countenance indicates peace with God. The amputating knife has removed the shattered limb, but it avails nothing. When asked concerning his future prospects, “all bright,” is his cheerful answer. Soon there is another vacant bed, and the brother returns with the remains, sad and lonely, to his home in Pennsylvania, while the departed one sweetly sleeps in Jesus. Here too is another who has given his strong right arm for his country; he is convalescing, and is anticipating a speedy return home. But the fatal fever seizes him, and, in a few days, William McCormick is no more. Thus I might continue to enumerate such instances for nearly every ward in our hospitals, but the memory of them is too painful. It is like living over again those days of sad experiences.

“Through all rebellion’s horrors, Bright shines our nation’s fame; Our gallent soldiers, perishing, Have left a deathless name.”

The grand review of the army took place on the 23d and 24th of May. It was estimated that one hundred and fifty thousand (150,000) troops passed in review. It was a grand spectacle--a sight never before and never again to be witnessed on this continent.

Those gallant officers in full military uniform, mounted upon prancing steeds, galloping up the broad avenue; the admiring crowd showering both horse and rider with beautiful wreaths and bouquets; the graceful salute _à la militaire_; the throwing up of hats, the waving of handkerchiefs and the loud huzzas that rent the air, made it an exciting scene. There was General U. S. Grant, the calm, self-possessed, heroic soldier, whose brow was crowned with the wreath of victory bravely won on a hundred battle-fields. There, too, was General Sherman, the invincible, who has yet to learn the meaning of the word defeat, and whose great “March to the Sea” has won the applause of an admiring world. The brave and gallant Meade, who so long and well commanded the army of the Potomac, and who hastened the overthrow of the rebellion by turning the tide of battle at Gettysburg, was among the number. The hero of Winchester--General Phil. Sheridan--too, was there; also that great cavalry rider, General Kilpatrick, with a corps of subordinate officers--among them our own Custer, of whom we have been so proud. There was General Burnside, the noble, generous soldier, whose heroisms never shone on the victorious field with a brighter lustre than after the defeat at Fredericksburg; who, when efforts were being made to exonerate him from all blame, manfully stepped forth, and, with a moral heroism less human than divine, confessed to the world that he alone was responsible for that defeat, acknowledged his inability to command so large an army, and humbly asked to be relieved and assigned to a subordinate position. Afterwards, the old Ninth Corps, under his victorious leadership, covered itself with glory and honor. But, “in that bright constellation of noble heroes,” none shone with a purer radiance--though perhaps with greater brilliancy--than that one-armed Christian soldier, Major-General O. O. Howard.

“O soldier with the empty sleeve, The nation gives you blessing, And woman’s hand shall keep for you Its tenderest caressing.”

The navy was likewise largely represented by officers of different rank, foremost among whom was Admiral Farragut--once “lashed to the mast.” The first day, the army of the Potomac--those heroes of so many battles--passed in review; the next, Sherman’s grand columns. It would seem impossible for one to look back upon those war-worn veterans, those battle-scarred heroes, whose trusty swords, wielded by strong arms, had gotten us the victory and saved the life of the Republic, and hear their stately “tramp, tramp, tramp,” for six successive hours, causing the earth to tremble beneath their firm tread, proudly bearing aloft their tattered banners, under which they had fought and their comrades fallen, without his heart swelling with emotions of deep gratitude and his eyes becoming dim with tears. Neither the services nor the hardships of the soldiers can ever be fully appreciated or estimated. Oh! those long fatiguing marches--the lonely picket post--the cold, damp bivouac--the scorching heat--the weary months spent in hospital--the loathesome confinement in prison-pens, those ante-chambers of hell, compared to which the meanest jail or penitentiary or almshouse was a paradise, and the exchange would have been hailed with far great joy than was the fairy isle of Calipso by the wrecked Télémaque, but the escape from which was a thousandfold more difficult than his from this enchanted isle!

In retrospecting the past, I find conflicting emotions alternately taking possession of my heart, emotions both of joy and sorrow. There are many pleasant remembrances connected with my “army life;” but, ah! there are also many sad reflections. My experience, though varied, sometimes joyous and again heart-rending, I would not take a fortune for. Good opportunities were afforded for the study of that greatest of all studies, human nature. Every trait of the human heart might be detected, not only the evil passions, but also the God-like virtues. There were many pleasures experienced in working for the soldier. It was pleasant to meet, not only old friends and acquaintances, but to form new ones. It was pleasant to see countenances light up as one entered the wards where the sick and wounded were lying. It was pleasant to know that your efforts, however humble, were gratefully appreciated--yea, an hundredfold. And there was a melancholy pleasure even in administering to dying wants; but the best of all was the consciousness of doing good; but the sad reflections far outweigh all the pleasant experiences. It is sad to think of the desolate homes, of the broken family circles, of the lonely firesides, of the many sorrowing ones all over our land. It is sad to think of the thousands of widowed wives and fatherless children, of so many loving mothers who wait in vain for the return of their darling boys, and of aged fathers who have none upon whom to lean, the staff of their declining years having been broken. It is sad to see so many crippled youth, so many empty sleeves.

“Empty sleeves! oh, sad reminders Of that long and dreary night, Mournful tokens of the battle, Saddest traces of the fight; Telling us how heroes suffered For their country and the right.

“But those empty sleeves are hallowed By the grave the battle leaves-- Mournful pride and saddest glory, Noblest gift our land receives. Honor to those gallant heroes! Honor to those empty sleeves!”

When we think of the untold millions spent, and the myriads of lives sacrificed in crushing out the rebellion--for “from Western plain to ocean-tide are stretched the graves of those who died”--the price seems too costly. But how truthful the following:

“Some things are worthless, and others so good That nations who buy them pay only in blood.”

And only when we remember the grand result achieved--“that the canker of death, dark slavery’s stain,” is wiped out forever, and our glorious Union maintained--can we feel that the three hundred thousand graves where sleep the “Boys in White” were not made in vain.

“Noble souls! oh, how heroic Was the sacrifice they made, When the awful tide of treason By their own life-blood was stayed, And their manhood’s strength and glory On their country’s altar laid.

“They have bought their country’s freedom, Sealed with blood and bitter pain; They have fought, and they have suffered, But their work was not in vain: Over all our rescued country Floats the starry flag again.”

But, as the rainbow of peace now spans the political horizon, may we not soon hope for the fulfilment of the prophetic words of the immortal Lincoln, in the closing paragraph of his first inaugural address? “The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearth-stone all over our broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when touched, as they surely will be, by the better angels of our nature.”

As a fitting and appropriate conclusion to this little book, and in keeping with the thoughts and incidents recorded in the last chapter, we insert the following poem, composed, as we are informed by the author, during the delivery of Mr. Bancroft’s celebrated eulogy, in the Hall of Representatives, on the first anniversary of the death of Mr. Lincoln:

ABRAHAM LINCOLN--ANNIVERSARY POEM.

BY U. J. BAXTER.

[Written April 14, 1866.]

What troubled woe Speaks to a nation of her glories slain? What sudden grief tells of our glories slain? Whose paricidal blow Has struck her heart and filled her cup of pain?

Why sound the bells So mournfully upon the air of night? Why volley forth the guns upon the night, With sudden peal that tells Of darkling horror and of dire affright?

The morn shall ope With a dread tale that tells of dark eclipse-- Of a dark deed that throws its black eclipse On all a nation’s hope, And smites the joy that filled a nation’s lips.

The waning light Goes out in many a home as sinks the day Which lights a nation’s life--the glorious day Which made our joy so bright-- A risen sun--a lump of feeble clay!

“Dust unto dust!” Death calls--earth fades--Heaven opens full in view; A glorious Heaven meets his raptured view. No gates shall bar the just-- His mighty soul in triumph enters through!

Through tears and gloom-- Through seas of blood--through stormy deeps of woe-- He brought our land safe through its bleeding woe; Yet on his honored tomb, Emblems of peace, fair, fadeless lilies grow.

For if the sword Owed to his hand its prestige and renown-- Smote all his foes and won his high renown-- His voice was but the word Through which his people’s voice and will were shown.

His country’s cry Was to him as the mighty voice of God; His people’s voice was as the voice of God-- Till called of Him on high To glory’s courts, where angels never trod;

And now we weep-- Weep that a nation’s sins have laid him low-- Weep that our proud crimes thus have brought him low-- Grieve o’er his peaceful sleep, Wrought by the vile assassin’s vengeful blow.

And well may tears, The agony of blood, and ever-during shame-- Tears of remorse and never-ceasing shame, Flow on through endless years, And consecrate for aye his deathless name.

The kingliest name That graced our living earth’s historic page-- Gilding anew the old historic page Of all her deeds of fame-- The crowning soul--the glory of our age.

Stricken and low! Aye, let us weep--weep for the guilt and crime-- The ingrate sense--the coward guilt and crime! Dissolve in tears and woe The darkling horrors of this monstrous time!

His name breathe not, His thrice-accursèd name, whose brutal hand-- Whose foul, polluted heart and brutal hand A demon’s purpose wrought, And whelmed in grief our glad, rejoicing land.

No fame be his! His crime too dark for name, too vile for scorn-- A nameless deed of guilt, too vile for scorn-- Oblivion’s dread abyss Be his abode, through ages still unborn!

To Thee, Great God! We bow our stricken hearts, and lift our cry-- Humble our prostrate souls and bring our cry; We feel Thy chastening rod-- Oh! grant Thy loving favor ere we die!

We see Thy hand! Through all these years Thy ruling hand was shown-- In war’s dread flame Thy mighty hand was shown! Our torn and bleeding Land Felt Thy protecting arm around her thrown.

Yet our proud heart Was still uplifted, full of vaunting boasts-- Claiming the victory with our selfish boasts, Till vengeance’ sudden dart Struck down the mightiest from our chosen hosts.

And then we saw-- Saw through the tears and anguish of our pain-- Our quickened flood of grief and blinding pain-- The fiat of Thy law The joy and clamor of our pride restrain!

Humbly we kneel! Oh! guide us still, our Father, through the sea! Our way has led us through a great Red Sea! And we have felt the seal Of blood’s baptizing--pensioned thus of Thee!

Now through a year Of unspent sorrow, still we gaze and weep; Still in our grief we backward gaze and weep-- Still tremble in our fear, And shudder o’er fresh phantoms as we sleep.

And still we look Forth to the future with a nameless dread-- Still the dark problem fills our path with dread; Time’s yet unwritten book Hangs ponderous and fearful o’er our head.

Our leader slain; Our greater Moses laid in smouldering dust, A nation’s heart bowed with him in the dust, We turn our hope in vain To seek a chieftain worthy of his trust.

No marvel here! Two kingliest come not haply born and twinned-- Each age its one great soul, nor matched, nor twinned, Owning no mortal peer-- So is his glory in our age unkinned.

His mantle fell-- On whom is not yet shown--yet sure its folds Are buried not--its rich and loving folds Shall lay some blessed spell On him who most his noble spirit holds.

Great chieftain! rest! Our hearts shall go as pilgrims to thy tomb; Our spirits mourn and bless thy martyr tomb; We deem thy lot is blest; Our love shall rob our sorrow of its gloom.

All coming time Shall ne’er despoil thy glory of its crown-- Each year shall set its jewels in thy crown-- Each day bell’s passing chime Shall add a tongue to speak thy just renown.

WASHINGTON, D. C.

Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation and spacing errors have been fixed.

Page 13: “silence prevaits” changed to “silence prevails”

Page 50: “and sufferring” changed to “and suffering”

Page 54: “Thansgiving day” changed to “Thanksgiving day”

Page 60: “an authorative manner” changed to “an authoritative manner”

Page 128: “I relate his” changed to “I relate this”

Page 158: “General Custar’s carriage” changed to “General Custer’s carriage”

Page 173: “no communication tion” changed to “no communication”

Page 185: “of of the great” changed to “of the great”

Page 216: “sacred momentoes” changed to “sacred mementoes”

Page 234: “to go the new” changed to “to go to the new” “bank of the Appomatox” changed to “bank of the Appomattox”

Page 246: “Coal Harbor” changed to “Cold Harbor”

Page 256: “many iwll rise” changed to “many will rise”

Page 267: “the the closing paragraph” changed to “the closing paragraph”