Part 13

Little Ben sat on a board placed as a seat at the front of the wagon, his white, even teeth showing from ear to ear, and his eyes sparkling with gladness. Ben managed to buy a lot on a back alley and build himself a shanty and a little stable for the government mule.

Judging from his thrift, he is, no doubt, if alive, one of the wealthy colored men of Richmond now.

COULD YOU GET ME A RAW ONION AND SOME SALT?

A little company of my best workers were sent to Wilmington, N.C., in charge of my secretary, Mary Shelton, in the spring of 1865, to care for the sick being gathered there, and the half-starved prisoners being sent in for exchange.

The dangers and hardships of the journey were very great; but after many delays they finally reached there and were able to render valuable service.

Among these chosen workers was Amanda Shelton, now Mrs. Stewart of Mount Pleasant, Ia., who, strong of body and courageous of soul, was untiring in her ministrations. One day, as she walked among the hundreds of the sick and half-starved men, ministering to them as best she could, the surgeon of the ward called her attention to a soldier who lay as one dead.

“That man,” he said, “is starving to death. We can’t get him to eat anything. If you can tempt him to eat he may possibly recover.”

Miss Shelton went to the soldier, and tried to get his attention; but he lay with closed eyes, in seeming indifference. She tried to tempt him by mentioning every delicacy she could think of; but he shook his head and moaned impatiently.

As she remained standing beside his cot, trying to think of something else, he opened his eyes, and, looking her earnestly in the face, asked in pitiful, appealing tones,--

“Say, miss, don’t you think you could get me a raw onion and some salt?”

“Yes, I think I can,” she answered, and hastened away to try to find some onions.

Fortunately, a lot of supplies had just come in, and a sack of onions was among the goods received.

She hastened back with an onion in her hand and a cup of salt. He seized the onion eagerly, and began eating it as one would eat an apple or a peach, dipping it in the salt cup each time as he ate greedily.

The onion and salt was the balm of life to him; and from that time he began to amend, and was soon able to be about the ward and eat everything the surgeons would allow him to.

“Oh, that onion did the business for me! If I ever get home I will raise a big lot of them,” he said.

Shortly afterwards he was shipped North, and as the war soon afterwards closed, no doubt he reached his home safely.

MEN WHO COMMANDED THEMSELVES AND DID NOT SWEAR.

The Mississippi River was very much swollen in the spring of 1863, and a bayou near Helena offered a possible channel in the direction of Vicksburg. It was broad and deep enough to admit the passage of steamers and gunboats, but too narrow for a boat to turn around.

A fleet of steamers, bearing a well-chosen force, and accompanied by gunboats, was sent down this bayou. The fleet of boats had not gone far till the way was found blockaded. Large trees had been cut down, so that in falling they bridged the narrow stream from shore to shore. But determined men can overcome almost any obstacle.

They did not stop to cut the trees to pieces, but loosened them from the stumps, attached ropes and chains to them, and with their hands, by main force, pulled them out onto the dry land. Overhanging branches had to be cut away, and yet all the outworks of the boats were torn to pieces. Finding that this channel of approach was impracticable, a retrograde movement was made. There was but one way to get the boats out, and that was to back out stern foremost.

But while they were pushing on, the enemy had been felling the trees behind them, and the same hard work of pulling them out by human hands became necessary; and it was done.

It was my privilege to see the fleet of boats as it came in to join the force opposite Vicksburg, and a more dilapidated, ragged-looking lot of boats and men was never seen on the earth.

They looked as though they had been through a dozen battles. Little was left of the boats but the substantial framework. The flags hung in tatters; the smoke-stacks had been carried away; the pilot-houses torn to pieces; the guards and outworks were gone; the wheel-houses torn away, and the broken wheels left bare.

As heroes returning from battle, the soldiers of that expedition were welcomed by hearty cheers, as boat after boat came in, by their comrades. One boat, the first to enter the bayou, was the last to come in, and arrived about ten o’clock at night.

The landing was made alongside our Sanitary boat, where the agents and workers of the Sanitary and Christian Commissions were quartered. There were a number of ladies there; and their sympathies were deeply moved, that men who had been out on such hard service should be marched out through the rain and mud at so late an hour to make their camp.

“Why can they not stay under shelter where they are till morning?” was the indignant question that passed from lip to lip, as we stood out on the guards looking down upon them.

By the flambeau that burned with a weird, lurid light, we could dimly see them fall into line and march away, with their knapsacks on their backs and their guns in their hands. But they were a jolly set; and as they plunged into the mud, which was nearly knee-deep, some wag among them cried out, in imitation of boatmen taking the depth of the channel, “No bottom! no bottom!” Every soldier seemed to instantly join in the chorus; and “No bottom! no bottom!” rang out from hundreds of throats, which was soon varied to “No chickens!” “No coffee!” “No ’taters!” as they plunged on in the darkness.

Of course such conduct was not consistent with military dignity, and so the colonel tried to stop them. But the noise was so loud that he failed at first to make himself heard.

“Halt!” he cried in thunder tones.

Immediately there was entire quiet; every man stood still just where he was to hear what his commanding officer had to say; not a foot moved.

“Soldiers, you forget yourselves,” said the colonel. “I know it is raining, and the mud is deep, and the fare and the work have been hard; but you are in the midst of a great army, the commanding general’s quarters are near; what will be thought of such noise and confusion? You misrepresent yourselves; we will march quietly to camp. Forward, march!”

Not a passionate or profane word was spoken. We were all curious to know who the officer was who could command himself as well as his men.

The next day I was at General Grant’s quarters; and I inquired as to who the officer was, and told the story.

“I do not know him,” I said earnestly, “but I am sure he ought to be promoted. A man who can govern himself as he did last night ought to wear a general’s shoulder-straps.”

“That was Colonel Legget. He is a good man, and a very fine officer,” was the general’s reply.

“Do you know, General, that there is a great deal of profanity among the officers and men?”

“Yes, I know; I am sorry that it is so.”

“I am glad to hear you say that you are sorry.”

“I never swear.”

“Indeed! It is encouraging to hear a man of your influence say that. I am glad you have so much moral principle.”

“It is not moral principle,” he answered quickly. “I never contracted the habit of profanity. I should not utter an oath if I knew what I was about; and, not having the habit, I would not likely do so unconsciously. Profanity does not comport with the dignity of the military service.”

“No; nor with Christianity, which lifts a higher standard. I wish you could have said that Christian principles furnished an added restraint.”

“I believe in the Christian system, and have great respect for Christian people. They are doing a grand work in the army; but I am not a Christian as you understand it.”

“I wish you were. You walk amid dangers, and many of us feel anxious about you--many prayers go up for your safety. I would feel that you were safer for both worlds if you were a Christian.”

“I would like to be a Christian.”

Just then General Rawlins, one of the grandest men of the war, who was his chief of staff, came forward with some documents for examination, and the close conversation was interrupted, and I took my leave. I am glad to know that afterward he professed faith in the Divine Redeemer.

HE DIED CHEERING THE FLAG.

A. M. Shipman, an Ohio volunteer, who was confined for eight months as a hostage, was in Vicksburg jail during the siege, and was released when Pemberton surrendered.

For a time he had a fellow-prisoner named John B. Marsh, who had been forced into the Rebel army. Marsh made an attempt to join the Union forces, but was recaptured, and condemned to be shot. Just before his execution he managed to get the following note into Mr. Shipman’s hands:--

“KIND FRIEND,--If ever you reach our happy lines, have this put in the Northern papers, that my father, the Rev. Leonard Marsh, who lives in Maine, may know what has become of me, and what I was shot for. I am to be shot for defending my country. I love her, and am willing to die for her. Tell my parents that I am also happy in the Lord. My future is bright. I hope to speak to you as I pass out to die.”

One of the guards told Mr. Shipman afterward, that when young Marsh was placed in position ready to receive the fire of his executioners, he was told he could speak if he desired to do so. Looking calmly upon the crowd for a moment, he shouted out in strong, clear tones, “Three cheers for the old flag and the Union!” There was no response to his patriotic sentiment. He paused for a moment, and then shouted at the top of his voice, “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” A volley of musketry struck him in the breast, and stopped the beating of his brave, loyal heart.

HOW PRESIDENT LINCOLN RECEIVED THE NEWS OF SHERIDAN’S VICTORY.

I was personally acquainted with President Lincoln, and sat talking with him in his public office when the telegram was brought in announcing General Sheridan’s second victory in the Shenandoah Valley, which resulted in the defeat of General Early.

When the messenger came in, Mr. Lincoln was talking very earnestly; and although he laid down the telegram with the announcement, “An important telegram, Mr. President,” Mr. Lincoln took no notice of it.

The messenger went as far as the door of the room, and seeing that Mr. Lincoln had not taken up the telegram he returned, and laying it a little nearer to him on the desk, repeated,--

“An important telegram, Mr. President.”

But as the president kept on talking, and took no notice of it, the messenger retired.

He was at that time talking of the sanitary condition of the army; the relation of food to health, and the influence of the special-diet kitchen system in restoring the soldiers to health, and its effect in lessening the number of furloughs.

I, too, talked earnestly; as, while pushing the work of the special-diet kitchens, I believed most heartily in furloughs.

But earnest as I was, I was exceedingly anxious to know the contents of that telegram.

There was during that interview, that far away look in his eyes, that those seeing could never forget.

At last he paused and took up the despatch, and after looking over it read it aloud.

“This is good news indeed,” he said, and a smile lit up his rugged features as he went on with his comments.

“This Sheridan,” he said, “is a little Irishman, but he is a big fighter.”

Soon after I arose to take my leave. He, too, arose and stood like a giant before me, as he extended his hand, and said, “Well, success to you. Come in again.”

I did not realize his greatness at that time, but now all the world knows that Abraham Lincoln will stand out a colossal figure as long as American history is read. A thousand years will not dim the lustre of his name or fame.

When his armies were pushed back till they built their camp-fires under the shadow of the nation’s Capitol, and treason glared at him from the near palaces, and the ship of state rocked in the trough of the waves of civil war and social revolution, he stood firm and strong at the helm, with calm, unwavering trust in God. In a rougher mould, he possessed the majesty of a Clay, the sagacity of a Franklin, the wit of a Ben Jonson, the benevolence of a Howard, and the social qualities of the Adamses. No heart in all the land throbbed with a truer, kindlier charity towards all, than did the great heart of Abraham Lincoln when the assassin’s bullet stopped its generous beating. Among philanthropists, in all ages, Lincoln will stand out as The Great Emancipator, who brought liberty to an enslaved and cruelly wronged race; and Right will laurel-crown him as a martyr.

No one bullet ever went forth on a deadlier mission, or struck so heavy a blow to friends and foes alike, as did the bullet that laid Abraham Lincoln low in the dust.

Victor and vanquished, who had come up out of a great struggle with their garments rolled in blood to ground their arms at his feet, and who had received his benediction of peace and good-will to all, were alike mourners when the assassin’s bullet did its deadly work.

It was as though there was one dead in every house. The mourners went about the streets uncomforted. Men forgot their love for gold and their lust for power; statesmen groped about like blind men for some hand to lead. _The world was in mourning_; for all the world knew that he had come to the kingdom for such a time as that.

The lives of such men as Abraham Lincoln are measured by deeds, and not by length of days. His work was wrought in a few short years. He answered the question of the wisdom and solidity of a republican form of government by hurling its betrayers from power. He established human liberty on the immutable rock of intelligent public sentiment. When he proclaimed above the sleeping heroes of Gettysburg, “a government of the people, by the people, and for the people,” he sounded forth an endless jubilee that has echoed and re-echoed through the world, till the people of every kindred and tongue have heard the glad tidings, and human slavery has been branded as a crime, and outlawed by all the civilized nations of the earth.

The saviour of his people, the liberator of the oppressed, the great-hearted friend of humanity, he will stand out a colossal figure in history while men love liberty more than life, while men love freedom more than chains, and while human sympathy links us to each other and draws us toward God and heaven.

It seems fitting, as there was not one of all the millions who loved him, and who would have shielded him at any cost, but knew not of his peril, that the flag he loved should have become his avenger, and caught the foot of the assassin in its loyal folds, and hurled him away to certain death. That flag, kept securely in a glass case, is held sacred in the treasure-house of the nation. The swift-footed years have gone by, till _twenty-nine_ have passed; but Lincoln is not forgotten: his memory is as fresh and sweet as it was at the first.

The robins come to build their nests, and the bluebirds sing their sweet spring songs, just as they did twenty-nine years ago this April-time; but he is not forgotten, for his work goes on. The flag that Lincoln upheld is the banner honored of all nations, the principles he sustained and taught are more and more becoming the heritage of the world, and will be universal.

HOW I GOT THE COTTON.

A few days after the first fleet ran the blockade at Vicksburg, another fleet, composed entirely of wooden steamers, ran through that fiery channel.

The plans of the government coming to my knowledge, I sent a note to the medical director, offering to ship a lot of hospital supplies, and asking him to designate the boat on which I should ship them. My note came back indorsed,--

“Send supplies down on the _Tigress_.”

I still have that letter on file.

The _Tigress_ was a trim, stanch little craft which General Grant had used for headquarters. And feeling sure the swift, trim little steamer would make the passage safely, I shipped a heavy lot of supplies on her.

There were six wooden steamers, with barges in tow, laden with army supplies.

On the night of the 26th of April, 1863, they ran the blockade.

All the important machinery was protected by bales of cotton and bales of hay.

All the boats got through safely, except the _Tigress_.

In the midst of the fiery channel a solid shot cut through the heavy gunwales of the barge she was towing, and went through her hull, just below the water-level. Her crew deserted her, and made their escape in the small boats which were there for that purpose.

She filled with water so slowly that she drifted down into the Union lines before she sank, sinking near the shore on the Louisiana side of the river.

Two days afterwards I received a letter from an Iowa colonel, whose name I have forgotten, whose regiment was in camp opposite where the _Tigress_ sank, informing me that the men of his command were willing to wade out neck-deep and secure the cotton about the engine of the _Tigress_, if the commanding general would give it to me for sanitary purposes; and that as he was coming up to Young’s Point with empty wagons for supplies, he would gladly deliver it there.

I was very much perplexed as to what I had best do, but finally sent the colonel’s letter to General Grant, who had gone below Vicksburg with his army, with a brief letter, saying that “If the granting of this request is entirely consistent with your sense of honor, and the best interest of yourself and of the government, I would be glad to receive the cotton, as I shipped a heavy lot of supplies on the _Tigress_, and they have all been lost.”

As soon as my letter was received, the order was issued, and sent up by a special messenger. I sent it immediately to that generous Iowa colonel, with a most kindly message.

I do not know how deep the Iowa soldiers waded out to secure the cotton; but I do know that a heavy lot came up in good condition very promptly, and that I shipped it to St. Louis to Partrage & Co. for sale, and that it was sold for $1,950, which I charged to my account, and which enabled me to more than double the amount of supplies I had lost.

I see by bills in my possession that I bought immense quantities of supplies in St. Louis. There is one bill of seventy-five bushels of dried apples, while all the onions in the market were bought up, and lemons and other antiscorbutics; and when our forces surrounded Vicksburg, heavy supplies were rushed in to meet their pressing wants, especially those who were sick and wounded in hospital and camp.

Somehow I lost the address of that Iowa colonel; but although more than thirty years have passed, I have never ceased to feel the most profound gratitude to that colonel and his men for their heroic services. If this should fall under the eyes of any of them, I should be very glad to hear from them, and to thank them personally.

THE SEQUEL TO “UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.”

The name of Harriet Beecher Stowe recalls the story of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” It was a story that thrilled and moved the people of this country as no other story has ever done. Its influence was not a sentimental and transitory one. The shafts of truth were sent home to men’s consciences, and were abiding; they live to-day.

It may not, however, be generally known that the hero of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” _did not die till a few years ago_--in 1883.

I knew him personally, and have heard the story from his own lips. Mrs. Stowe was acquainted with Uncle Tom, and read a sketch of his life which had been published by the Anti-Slavery Society before she wrote her book.

His history and work after the beating he had received, which brought him down to death’s door, are more remarkable than those that had preceded, which she records, and where she leaves him dead. He recovered, and afterwards had an opportunity to escape with his family from slavery. He used such sagacity in planning his journey, preparing for months for the great event, that he was able to elude his pursuers, and reach Canada in safety. Two of his four children were too small to travel on foot such a long journey. So he made a sack with straps over his shoulders, and carried them on his back out of slavery. At times his back was so sore, from the heat and friction, that the blood ran down to his heels.

It was a heroic effort for freedom for himself, and his children, and his wife.

He was, as far as I am able to judge, the most remarkable colored man that has ever lived on this continent.

His home, which I have visited, was on the Sydenham River, near the town of Dresden, Ontario, Canada. It was a most comfortable one.

He did not know one letter from another when he reached Canada. He became a scholar, and in a few years spoke the English language correctly and without the Southern accent.

He had neither money nor credit when he settled in Canada, but he owned at the time of his death one of the finest farms in the Dominion.

He had never studied oratory, but he became one of the most eloquent speakers in Canada and England. He could fill Exeter Hall, England, without effort. Lords and ladies entertained him at their castles, and on invitation of Queen Victoria he visited her at Windsor Palace.

His name was Josiah Henson. I visited him in August, 1882, at his home. He was then nearly ninety-three years of age. In March, 1883, having turned into his ninety-fourth year, he died. His mind was clear, his conversation intelligent and logical. The pathetic story of his running away from slavery would have been, if touched by Mrs. Stowe’s pen, far in advance of anything in “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”

He was a friend of the slaves, and for several years before, and especially during the war, was one of the conductors and guides on the underground railroad to Canada.