Читать книгу: «A Boy Trooper With Sheridan», страница 10

CHAPTER XIV

Assassination of Lincoln – The Return March – A Homeless Confederate – Not Destroyed by the Yankees – The Goddess of Liberty – The Grand Review – Grant’s Final Order.

THE news of the assassination of Lincoln reached us at Burkesville Junction – the crossing of the Richmond and Danville and the Southside railroads – April 15, 1865. The terrible intelligence came over the military telegraph wire about midnight of the fourteenth, I think, but it was not promulgated to the troops until after reveille in the morning. Secretary Seward had been dangerously wounded by one of the assassins, and the Head of the Nation had been murdered by J. Wilkes Booth, who as he was escaping from the theater at Washington where the President was shot, brandished a dagger on the stage and shouted, “Sic semper tyrannis!” and “the South is avenged!”

As the details of the dastardly plot were made known, the army was informed that the assassin intended to take the life of Gen. Grant. Battle-scarred and stern-faced veterans who had fought from the first Bull Run to Appomattox turned pale and set their teeth as the dispatches were read to the men drawn up in line. It was difficult to believe at first that Abraham Lincoln, the great and noble and tender-hearted President whom we had seen only a few days before near Petersburg, was dead. Yet the sad news was confirmed as later dispatches came to hand.

The Union soldiers again began to look after their cartridge boxes. They knew not what to expect next. This was a new phase of warfare. But in spite of the declaration of the assassin that the South was avenged, a majority of the rank and file of Grant’s army as they recovered from the first shock of the dreadful calamity, were ready to exonerate the men who had laid down their arms at Appomattox from any complicity in the plot that struck down the noble Lincoln at the very moment that the glorious sun of peace was rising above the dark clouds that had hung like a pall over the nation for four long years.

Lincoln was murdered on the fourth anniversary of the capture of Fort Sumter by the rebels. The traitors who directed the firing on the flag waving over that fortress four years before, and who had set on foot and carried forward the wickedest rebellion ever inaugurated, were responsible for the death of the martyr Lincoln and the thousands who fell on both sides of that sanguinary conflict.

A few days after the assassination we continued our march to Richmond, camping for a day or two in Manchester on the opposite side of the James. The ruin and havoc made by the rebels when evacuating their capital, subjected the inhabitants to great hardships. A large portion of the city was burned.

I witnessed the return of a veteran in butternut to his home in Richmond. He came down the hill from the State House and turned into a street leading toward the river. His right arm was in a sling. He had been wounded early in the morning of the day that Lee surrendered. The disbanded Confederate was literally in rags and the uppers of his shoes had seceded from the soles. Yet his face was beaming with joyful anticipation, for he was nearing his home.

But as he reached what had been the corner of another street and turned to the right, his serviceable hand was raised and his knees trembled as he looked in vain for the dwelling he had left when last he bade his little family good-by and hastened away to help build the breastworks in front of Petersburg. The dwellings that had stood in that neighborhood were now a mass of blackened ruins. The poor fellow sank down in the street and a colored man hastened to his assistance.

“I declar, it’s Massa John,” exclaimed the negro as he raised the head of the soldier. “Doan’ you know me, Massa?”

“Is it Pomp?”

“Deed an’ ‘tis Pomp, Massa.”

“Where is your mistress and the children?”

“Dey’s ober on the odder side de bridge, Massa; how glad dey’ll be to see you. We all ‘spected de Yankees dun kill you, shuah nuff.”

Just then a woman came hurriedly from around the corner and stopped for a moment as she surveyed the scene before her.

“Who is it, Pomp?” she eagerly inquired, as she advanced toward the party in the street.

“Bress de Lawd, it’s Massa John.”

In another moment husband and wife were in each other’s arms, their tears flowing freely.

“And the children, Mary?”

“Safe and well, praise God.”

“Amen. Praise God you are all alive.”

“But you are wounded?”

“Yes, dear; I’ll be unable to use my right arm for a few months; but when it gets well we will rebuild the home which the Yankees have destroyed for us.”

“But, my dear, our home was not destroyed by the Yankees. The city was fired by our own men as they left us. The fire was raging terribly when the Yankees came in and did all they could to prevent the spread of the flames.”

“Is that so? Then I have fought for years, lost the use of my right arm and returned to find my home destroyed by order of one of our own generals. Surely, wife, the hand of God has been against the Confederacy. We were taught to believe that we were fighting for liberty, but we were mistaken. I love the stars and bars. I have fought and bled for our flag, yet I begin to feel that secession was not right. Our leaders were wrong, and it follows that we must suffer for it.”

“What shall we do, John?”

“Do? Well, the outlook is not bright, I’ll admit. But we’ll not get discouraged. I have a brother in Boston who has money, you know, and I believe he’ll help us out. He told me not to go into the Confederate army. He said we would get whipped, but I didn’t believe it then. Brother was right, and I’ll send him a letter next mail.”

Then the wounded Confederate and his better half started off to meet their children at the house of a friend. I gave him the contents of my haversack and several other troopers who were with me also gave our late foe what they had with them.

“Thank you, boys; I’m glad it’s over,” he said, as he handed the provisions to Pomp, who “toted” it to their friend’s residence over the bridge.

From Richmond we marched to Washington, enjoying the trip greatly. On the way we passed over many of the Virginia battlefields. Here and there farmers were plowing and preparing to put in grain where the opposing armies had recently been in camp. The column was in the best of spirits. The war was over. Our side had gained the victory and we were homeward bound. As we came to the brow of Arlington Heights and caught our first glance of the Capitol in the distance, cheer after cheer was given. The bands played martial tunes and the rejoicing was general.

“The Goddess has been put on top of the dome,” said one of the boys of Company I.

“Yes; but poor Taylor isn’t with us to see the grand sight,” remarked another.

We went into camp on Arlington Heights, and the bulk of the Army of the Potomac soon arrived. It was a grand reunion. The soldiers visited through the bivouacs and in Washington. Relatives and friends from home came down to see the boys and to congratulate the victorious army.

Then came the gallant army that had marched from Atlanta to the sea commanded by Gen. Sherman. The two armies fraternized for the first time. And it was a glorious meeting. Volumes could be written of interesting incidents of those last days of army life around Washington.

Before the troops were disbanded they participated in a general review in Washington; the Army of the Potomac, May 23, and Sherman’s army, May 24, 1865. It was the grandest military display ever seen. Orders for the review were promulgated several days in advance, and so thoroughly disciplined were the troops, that in all that vast aggregation of military organizations there was no break during the two days of parading. Everything moved with clocklike regularity.

The first day – Army of the Potomac day – found Companies C and D, First Massachusetts cavalry, in line before reveille. The boys had been all night polishing their sabers and other equipments. No one could sleep on such an occasion. We were to ride before the President, governors of loyal States and other dignitaries, and we were anxious to do honor to the event – the event of a lifetime.

I had the honor to be one of three soldiers of the escort to ride next to Gen. Meade on the grand review. The general was the first military man to ride by the reviewing stand at the White House.

The headquarters flag of the Army of the Potomac was carried by a sergeant of our company. On the right of the sergeant, who was a few paces in the rear of Gen. Meade, rode a trooper of Company D, and I rode on the sergeant’s left; we were three abreast. It was a position of honor, and we felt it, although we did not appropriate to ourselves all the homage paid to the head of the column. We were willing to admit that some of the cheering was intended for the grand old hero of Gettysburg, George Gordon Meade.

As the escort and staff of the Army of the Potomac arrived at the Capitol building, thousands of schoolgirls dressed in white appeared. The bands played “Hail to the Chief,” and one of the prettiest of the larger girls came forward to present Gen. Meade an evergreen wreath, beautifully festooned with roses, and neatly tied with satin ribbon. The general’s horse “flaxed around” so that he could not reach the wreath, and he called me to receive it, which I did, and passed it over my shoulder, wearing it like a sash on the review. The bands played again, and we took up the line of march on Pennsylvania Avenue. On to the turn at the Treasury Building; another turn, this time to the left, and we were in front of the White House.

On either side the avenue was packed, and we looked into a great sea of faces all the way. And how the people did cheer and shout. Never was such another scene presented.

All the buildings along the line of march were decorated. Flags, banners and bunting waved from every edifice. Across the south face of the Capitol an inscription standing out in large letters declared:

“The Only National Debt We Can Never Pay is the Debt We Owe To the Victorious Union Soldiers.” Gen. Meade after passing the reviewing stand rode into the gate in front of the White House, dismounted and joined Grant and other distinguished people on the platform. The color sergeant, the D Company orderly and myself remained mounted near the gate inside the yard, and witnessed the review of the gallant Army of the Potomac, sixty-five thousand strong, marching by, company front.

It was a magnificent spectacle. There we sat for six hours and more, as the proud Union soldiers marched triumphantly before the representatives of the Government. So well planned was the movement of the troops, that some of the brigades, after passing the reviewing stand, marched to camp, were dismissed, and the soldiers returned to the city and joined the thousands of citizens witnessing the parade. And while the leading; divisions were marching in review, some of those which came into column later in the day, were back in their bivouacs, cooking coffee for a lunch before falling into line.

The second day, May 24, Sherman’s splendid army was reviewed. Gen. Meade occupied a seat on the reviewing stand, and his two orderlies sat on their horses near the gate in the White House yard, as they had done the day before.

Sherman’s “bummers” came in for a good share of the applause as they marched behind the regiments to which they belonged, and here and there a Georgia contraband also attracted attention. The review ended, we returned to our camp on the south side of the Potomac, on Arlington Heights.

June 2, 1865, came Grant’s final order to the Union soldiers. It was read to the troops, and concluded as follows:

“In obedience to your country’s call, you left your homes and families, and volunteered in its defense. Victory has crowned your valor, and secured the purpose of your patriotic hearts, and with the gratitude of your countrymen and the highest honors a great and free nation can accord, you will soon be permitted to return to your homes and families, conscious of having discharged the highest duties of American citizens.

“To achieve the glorious triumphs, and secure to yourselves, your fellow-countrymen and posterity the blessings of free institutions, tens of thousands of your gallant comrades have fallen, and sealed the priceless legacy with their lives. The graves of these a grateful nation bedews with tears, honors their memories, and will ever cherish and support their stricken families.”

CHAPTER XV

Mustered Out at Arlington Heights – Back to the Old Bay State – Discharged From the Service – Startling News in a Quiet Village – Home, Sweet Home.

HERE at Arlington Heights the squadron of the First Massachusetts Cavalry, Companies C and D, commanded by Capt. E. A. Flint, and on duty at headquarters Army of the Potomac, was mustered out June 29, 1865, by Capt. J. C. Bates, of the Eleventh United States infantry, chief commissary of musters, in compliance with special orders No. 24 headquarters cavalry corps, June 18, 1865. A few days later we were en route to the Old Bay State to receive our discharges at Camp Meigs, Readville. Many of the boys were so anxious to get home that they could not wait to have their papers made out, but left requests to have them sent on to them by mail.

I reached home a day or two after the Fourth of July. And what a reunion we had! All the family and many of the neighbors assembled to welcome the soldier boy. Of course I was a hero in the estimation of the good folks at home. I had yet seven months to live to reach my seventeenth birthday, but I had returned with a discharge which declared that “No objection to his being re-enlisted is known to exist.”

In a marginal note it was stated that “This sentence will be erased should there be anything in the conduct or physical condition of the soldier rendering him unfit for the army.”

Irving Waterman did not reach Berlin until two days after my arrival. He had remained at Boston to visit with one of the boys. My little sister Eva, when she saw me coming down the road without Irving, only waited to greet me with a kiss, and then started on a run for the home of Waterman’s parents.

“My brother’s come home!” she exclaimed.

“Praise the Lord!” shouted Mrs. Waterman.

“But your son didn’t come.”

“Didn’t he – what’s the matter?”

“He’s dead.”

“Dead? Irving dead – no, no! that can’t be.”

“But he didn’t come, and he must be dead.”

Mrs. Waterman headed a procession – a dozen or more – of men, women and children, who came up the street on a run. The news that Waterman was dead spread like wildfire, and soon a large number of villager’s were at our house to hear all about it. Their alarm was changed to rejoicing when I assured them that Waterman was alive and well.

My little sister when she heard mother inquiring about Irving, and my reply that he had not returned with me, took it for granted that he was dead, and so hastened to inform Mrs. Waterman.

Late that night when the family separated to “catch a little sleep before chore time,” as father put it, and I sank down into mother’s best feather bed, and tried to remember the thrilling events in which I had participated since Waterman, Taylor and I started for that “shooting match,” I felt that, after all, —

 
     “Be it ever so humble,
     There’s no place like home.”