Part 34

Chapter 343,943 wordsPublic domain

Patent Office, I thought, you have a patent on suffering and death. As I stood, talking with doctors and nurses, they carried a man away.

“There’s such a shortage of medical supplies,” a beautiful nurse exclaimed. “Isn’t there something you can do to help? Did you know there are 12,000 wounded in and around the city?”

Note—

Check telegrams at T. Office. See Seward and Blain.

The White House

March 20, ’65

With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation’s wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan...to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.

That is my prayer.

Something resembling peace came as I wrote.

7 a.m.

Office

A lieutenant visited my office one afternoon last week, a thin ghost of a man. Sitting in a chair alongside my desk, he seemed to totter, to lean toward the sun coming in the window.

He showed me pieces of bone that had been removed from a shoulder wound, laying them on my desk, in the sun.

I talked with him for about an hour, questioning about his army experiences, his home...he is mustered out. Back to Albany.

A soldier bumped into me on the White House grounds, swearing because he had not been able to get his pay; his crutch poked at the ground, his leg-stump jerked, as he talked to me.

“Let me see your papers? Remember, I’ve been a lawyer and maybe I can help.”

Jip is dead.

March 28th, ’65

Someone is singing outside my office, singing that old favorite, “Massa’s in de cole, cole ground.”

Memories.

I see the newspaper heading:

5,000 COTTON BALES BURNED.

Baton Rouge, last week bales were piled in the Commons, soaked with alcohol, and burned. At this date, bales are valued at $100.00 per bale.

Another item, by the same reporter:

Two flatboats, loaded with cotton bales, were floated down the Mississippi, at New Orleans. Soaked with alcohol, they were set afire...

My little mulatto brings me my lunch; she bows and says:

“Good day, mistaaaaa President...cawnbread...thais cawnbread on my tray...”

March 29th

I have gone through my desk today, weeding out.

I have had a pigeonhole marked: A.

That’s for assassination.

I think there were about eighty ’nonymous threats in that pigeonhole. I have thrown them into the fireplace. I should have done this long ago. Some of the threats were made by persons who had never been to Washington, whose geographical knowledge would have led them to the stables rather than the White House. Some seemed to think I resided in the Washington monument. One person proposed that he assassinate me on the Presidential yacht. No doubt he felt that would please the press and general public.

It is uncommonly chilly this afternoon; I think I will have a fire in the fireplace. We can have some oak logs to burn up the ashes of the assassins.

General Grant and I have been on friendly terms for a long while. He likes to talk about his farming days in Missouri. He used to haul wood ten or twelve miles into St. Louis. $10.00 a cord. He is proud of his log cabin, which he designed and built, a two-story.

At his HQ we sat under a tent flap and talked. He unfolded a letter from his wife and showed me his baby’s smudge print. Wife and son are two thousand miles away.

I talked about my courtship days, and Grant said:

“...Let me tell you how I got hitched. We were buggy riding and had to cross a flooded creek. As the buggy sank into the water and the water poured in, she yelled: ‘I’m gonna hold onto you no matter what happens.’ After we crossed I asked her: ‘Would you like to cling to me the rest of your life?’ Or something like that.”

We got to talking horses. I described some of my nags and some of my faithfuls. He talked about his West Point horses, thoroughbreds... Wilma could out-hurdle any other...six foot six inches...then he talked about Mexican horses and Mexican saddles...you should see the one I got as booty...silver ornaments...

It was good to get away from Washington.

When I reviewed Grant’s troops, I rode his Cincinnati, a huge bay. The soldiers are always pleased by my visits. I remove my hat and bow. Men clamor around me, huzzahing. They stroke Cincinnati. They kiss my hand: these are the blacks who are willing to fight for the union. Grant singled out a corps: recently, they had captured six cannons, under fire all the time.

Cincinnati whuffs and bobs his splendid head, as Grant and I ride along, a woodland around us.

After lunch in his tent, he gave me a lieutenant’s diary, written at Shiloh.

Our General Grant sat on his horse and watched the enemy try to capture a hill. Men fought from tree to tree. A man near me has been shot while aiming his rifle, one eye is closed, one eye is still open. A corporal has been disemboweled by a cannon ball. Riderless horses are running wild. Trees are plugged with lead bullets. I counted sixty bullets in a small tree.

I plan to collect personal accounts of the war; men must know.

Mary Mitchell, a volunteer nurse, has written:

The wounded filled every building and overflowed into the country around, into farm houses, barns, corncribs, cabins. Six churches were full, the Odd Fellows’ Hall, the Freemasons’, the Town Council room, the school. I saw men with cloths about their heads, about their feet, men with arms in slings, men without arms, men in ambulances, carts, wheelbarrows.

At the center of this autumn harvest stood the little white Dunker church, where the teaching on Sundays was that war is a sin. There the dead lay in gray and blue. In the fields lay thousands. Corn leaves over some of them were spattered with blood.

Grant and I ride. There is mud on the horses. His officers crowd round. Grant helps me dismount. We talk. Grant speaks favorably of yesterday’s battle, speaks with a rasping voice, hand to his throat. Behind his chair lies a muddy saddle. It is cloudy, cold. A private brings a dispatch. Grant reads it and nods. I respect this man.

Cabinet members reveal their excitement. Rumors. But the rumors may have solid foundations. Grant, they say. Sherman, he left to rejoin his army. His army will move. My secretaries believe in the rumors. Seward is optimistic. Hill waves his arms. Of course. At the telegraph office the men say “yes.” It is a kind of yes that could mean almost anything. The newspapers are reporting this same news.

Mary has spent $2,000 for a gown. She has spent $3,000 for earrings. $5,000 for a lace shawl.

She thinks I do not know about these extravagances. My previous efforts at control produce hysteria, hysteria that lasted for days.

I remember Ann Rutledge.

I order the brougham and drive.

The April weather is fine.

As the war draws to a close I remember that four million people have been involved in this struggle.

I have heard from Robert but he reports that his mother’s letters are unbalanced. He has offered to bring them to the White House when he has leave. He says that her letters have been distraught for months. He is deeply concerned over her condition.

Evening

Desk

Details are coming in.

General William T. Sherman, with his 60,000 men, has cut a swath across insurgent territory, a swath twenty to forty miles wide, and three hundred miles long.

All day the news comes.

All items confirm the success of his march.

Sherman’s men have foraged off the country; their devastation of property has been extreme; miles of railroad track have been ripped up; rolling stock has been captured; his forces advanced ten or twelve miles a day. The Confederate press refers to his march as a scourge.

Savannah—that was Sherman’s gift on Christmas.

Now, across the nation, a million and a half slaves have been freed.

Wednesday we went to Richmond by boat, a party of us, the day clear. Most of Richmond is gutted. Smoke is rising from burned buildings, buildings burned by the retreating Southern army. I walked a main street, holding Tad’s hand, our escort with us. Along both sides of the street were derelict people, blacks and whites, hungry people, uncertain what our presence meant to them.

I walked into the capitol building, sat hesitantly at the desk of President Jefferson Davis. Sitting there, the escort nearby, I remembered a pubic statement made by Davis, that blacks are children, that slavery is their training school.

In the streets we were met by cheering blacks; they wished to crowd around, realizing we meant no harm.

I sent men to that hellhole, Libby Prison, where thousands of our men have died of starvation and disease and torture; they are to be freed from that tobacco warehouse cesspool.

Riding in a carriage we saw the devastation of the city, ashes and memories. Five years ago today there were three million slaves.

Palm Sunday

1865

In the salon of the River Queen I met with my guests as we sailed up the Potomac, the river calm and the air fresh. We talked of the ruins of Richmond, the looters, the burned buildings, the wounded in tent hospitals. I saw a general feeling of sympathy.

During the afternoon, a military band played for us—the “Marseillaise” for my special guest, the Marquis de Chambrun; we had “Dixie” and Foster melodies for the congressmen and their wives.

As we sailed by Mount Vernon someone asked me about Springfield: did I think of returning after my second term? I thought it proper to say that my home was no Mount Vernon but I looked forward to returning.

The meals on our flagship were excellent. Tad was always hungry. Mary did not relish the food, or enjoy some of the guests. All of us know the war is winding down. General Lee has lost 19,000 men, as prisoners to Grant.

I can’t remember when I have felt so encouraged.

As I lay in my bunk I could see in my mind a tree that reminded me of great trees I saw as a boy, trees with great shadows. It is worth a man’s time to hold communion with trees. The trunk of this tree, seen on the river bank, supported layers of outgoing branches.

Next morning I read to guests in the salon. I read from Macbeth. I always find it relaxing to read aloud, though my glasses sometimes bother me. I explained how Macbeth suffered mentally after becoming king. I helped my listeners visualize the murderer. I read from the quarto, graciously given me by Dr. Bancroft.

With Tad sitting at my feet, I read:

...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.

The White House

Library

Here I attempt to find sanctuary, among the poets.

Now I realize that Mary is going insane.

Only imbalance could bring about such reactions; no one can forget her insults to Grant, to officers and friends at his headquarters. All this distress centered on an innocent pretty woman.

For years I have detected imbalance in Mary. It has come into focus following Willie’s death. Hysteria, illnesses, doctors.

I am puzzled why I have persisted in this diary. For a time it seemed fitting to write it for my sons; for a while I considered Mary. As President, I thought of posterity. However posterity should have a solid record, objective, and this record, written at odd moments, emotional, leaves much to be desired.

While with Grant at the front lines, seeing men dead in the field, a man without hands dying, after seeing lifeless boys in the woods, I asked and I ask again, why do I add to these pages?

For a while it seemed to me I was learning about myself and others through these jottings. With Mary’s decline I find more question marks here, question marks beyond war’s great question marks; these question marks began with Ann Rutledge, resumed in East Salem, continued along the Mississippi and on my legal circuits. For years they lay dormant in Springfield, in the Lincoln house with the green shutters.

Executive Mansion

April 4, 1865

The capitol is decorated from dome to portico.

Victory!

Flags are everywhere.

The weather is fine.

The Treasury building has a huge bond picked out in lights. Cooke’s Bank has GLORY TO GOD spelled out in golden stars. Hotels, shops, restaurants are festive, I am told. Bands play “Dixie” and “Yankee Doodle,” Irish tunes, Foster’s songs. Fireworks and rockets explode over the Potomac. Cannon boom.

Horsemen, carriages, wagons, buggies, pedestrians...there isn’t a quiet corner in Washington!

This morning, General Grant shook my hand sadly, hardly a victory gesture. I did not try to penetrate his mood.

Tomorrow I am to speak to a crowd in front of the White House. I will try to envision a sane future. Rain is forecast. It will not matter, nothing is going to diminish the enthusiasm.

Robert is due here tomorrow.

Mary remains in her bedroom.

General Lee has surrendered his forces at the McLean House, at Appomattox. Grant has permitted Lee and his men to return to their homes; they may retain their mounts. Lee pointed out that his army was holding a thousand Union prisoners, prisoners who have nothing to eat but parched corn. His own men amply supplied, Grant has turned over 25,000 rations to Lee’s men and fed the Union prisoners.

As I write, fire engines roar, whistles blow, church bells ring.

This morning there was a salute of a hundred guns.

I spoke to a throng in front of the White House. The newspapers will carry my words but I also add them here, thinking to improve the text.

Mary is ill...all very unreal.

An end like a beginning can have a bitter edge.

Let us think as brothers. The great rebellion, which we have endured together, must be forgotten. Now, starting at once, each state must be granted full privileges of the Union as soon as state governments can organize and as soon as 10% of its citizens have taken the oath of allegiance. It is our national goal to offer clemency and pardon as we attain peace, peace for our democracy. I will at once lift the naval blockade. I will urge Congress to appropriate $400,000,000 to assist the South in its economic recovery. Ours is no longer a nation within a nation; ours is a victory for all mankind.

April 10, 1865

Evening

Beautiful sunset

Now that the war is over, Grant thinks we can reduce army expenditures by at least a half a million per day. We can reduce navy costs at the same time; this will bring down our national debt to something like normal proportions.

I am cheered by such prospects.

Peace is ahead and I will be exploring its possibilities intensively. It will be a pleasure to convene a cabinet meeting, to discuss economic changes, foreign relations, amnesty, rail expansion, and state laws. I find a new amicability in senate and house.

In another two or three months it may be possible to have a week or so in the Adirondacks, the three of us.

The White House

Sunday—late

Many have come to congratulate me on the cessation of the war, warm praise now that the union is preserved. Telegrams flood the telegraph office. Boys are always seeking me out, with their hands full of messages. I read newspapers with pleasure. Letters are piling up on my desk; my secretaries are complaining happily.

Everyone in Washington is celebrating. There are parties in homes, in churches, schools, hospitals and public buildings. The White House has scheduled a gala. I am happier than I have been in years.

I look forward to attending a play at Ford’s Theatre. I am told that it is a play full of puns. I am in a mood for something light.

I am also told that we are having corn bread at supper.

Note—

Estimate s: North –

360,000 killed in action

South —

260,000 killed in action

The White House

April 14, 1865

—rain—

Mary invited Laura Keene, the British actress, to tea. She is in her forties—rather pretty. Dressed in dark green velvet she suggested something of quality in the theatre. She has her own playhouse in New York City. Her talk was mostly about her acting days in London where she produced and acted in foreign and American plays.

She said that she is a friend of Taylor, the author of Our American Cousin. “He has written over a hundred plays,” she told us.

I spun a frontier story or two; she listened rather absently, her hands in her lap; Mary queried her about forthcoming New York productions; very abruptly Miss Keene exclaimed that she hated war; she said that slavery could have been abolished without destroying lives.

When Tad bounced in she made over him. He took to her, laughing hilariously over her British accent as she asked him to solve a riddle.

“Say it again, pretty lady,” he urged her.

“I’ve heard good things about Our American Cousin,” I said. “I guess you already know that we’ll be seeing the play tomorrow night.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

aul Alexander Bartlett (1909-1990) was a writer and artist, born in Moberly, Missouri, and educated at Oberlin College, the University of Arizona, the Academia de San Carlos in Mexico City, and the Instituto de Bellas Artes in Guadalajara. His work can be divided into three categories: He is the author of many novels, short stories, and poems; second, as a fine artist, his drawings, illustrations, and paintings have been ex- hibited in more than forty one-man shows in leading galleries, including the Los Angeles County Museum, the Atlanta Art Museum, the Bancroft Library, the Richmond Art Institute, the Brooks Museum, the Instituto-Mexicano- Norteamericano in Mexico City, and many other galleries; and, third, he devoted much of his life to the most comprehensive study of the haciendas of Mexico that has been undertaken. More than 350 of his pen-and-ink illustrations of the haciendas and more than one thousand hacienda photographs make up the Paul Alexander Bartlett Collection held by the Nettie Lee Benson Latin American Collection of the University of Texas, and form part of a second diversified collection held by the American Heritage Center of the University of Wyoming, which also includes an archive of Bartlett’s literary work, fine art, and letters.

Paul Alexander Bartlett’s fiction has been commended by many authors, among them Pearl Buck, Ford Madox Ford, John Dos Passos, James Michener, Upton Sinclair, Evelyn Eaton, and many others. He was the recipient of many grants, awards, and fellowships, from such organizations as the Leopold Schepp Foundation, the Edward MacDowell Association, the New School for Social Research, the Huntington Hartford Foundation, the Montalvo Foundation, and the Carnegie Foundation.

His wife, Elizabeth Bartlett, a widely published poet, is the author of seventeen published books of poetry, numerous poems, short stories, and essays published in leading literary quarterlies and anthologies, and, as the founder of Literary Olympics, Inc., is the editor of a series of multi-language volumes of international poetry that honor the work of outstanding contemporary poets.

Paul and Elizabeth’s son, Steven, edited and designed this volume.

Voices from the Past

was set in Garamond type by Autograph Editions. The typeface is named after Claude Garamond (c. 1480-1561), a French type designer and publisher and the world’s first commercial typefounder. Garamond’s contribution to the history of typesetting was substantial. He perfected the design of Roman type: The fonts that he cut beginning in 1531 were recognized as possessing a superior grace and clarity, so much so that Garamond’s fonts influenced European printing for the next century and a half.

It is interesting to note that Garamond type is the evolutionary ancestor of the type used to print the first official copies of the Declaration of Independence. In the 1730s, Englishman William Caslon refined Garamond’s version of Aldine roman, the well-balanced typeface became popular, and was introduced to the American colonies by Benjamin Franklin.

Despite his considerable contribution to the evolution of typography, Garamond was not a successful businessman and he died in poverty.

During the past five centuries, so many variations of Garamond’s type designs have been created that the phrase ‘Garamond type’ has come to be used loosely, with little memory remaining of its history.

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End of Project Gutenberg's Voices from the Past, by Paul Alexander Bartlett