A WISCONSIN WOMAN’S PICTURE OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN
Cordelia A. P. Harvey
Hundreds of loyal women labored devotedly during the Civil War ministering to the needs of the northern soldiers. Of them all, none worked more effectively or earned a larger measure of appreciation and devotion on the part of those she served than Mrs. Cordelia A. P. Harvey, wife of Governor Lewis Harvey of Wisconsin. After his tragic death by drowning at Savannah, Tennessee, while engaged in a mission of mercy to Wisconsin’s wounded soldiers, Mrs. Harvey conceived the idea that it was her duty to carry forward the work that her husband had left unfinished. In September, 1862, Governor Salomon appointed her sanitary agent at St. Louis, and until the end of the war she continued in this service. Some idea of her methods and of their effectiveness may be gained from the narrative which follows. What the soldiers thought of her is sufficiently indicated by the title “The Angel of Wisconsin,” which they bestowed upon her.
The narrative we print is from Mrs. Harvey’s typewritten copy of a lecture which she delivered following the close of the war. This manuscript the owner, Mrs. James Selkirk of Clinton, Wisconsin, permitted the Wisconsin History Commission to copy a few years since, and it was made the basis, in large part, of chapters VIII and IX of Hurn’s Wisconsin Women in the War between the States, published by the commission in 1911. Prior to this the portion of the paper pertaining to President Lincoln was drawn upon by J. G. Holland in preparing his life of Lincoln. Thus the paper has twice been drawn upon freely for publication. Notwithstanding this, the complete story in Mrs. Harvey’s own words is sufficiently interesting and important to justify its publication
at this time. In the preparation of the narrative for publication a few changes in punctuation and typography have been made, and one paragraph, clearly interpolated for the benefit of the lecturer’s younger hearers, has been deleted. These things aside, the story is now printed for the first time just as Mrs. Harvey composed it.
* * * * *
Perhaps it is not well to open too frequently the deep wells of past sorrow that we may drink the bitter draughts which memory offers. Still, we would not forget the past—our glorious past—with all its terrible trials, its untold sufferings, its unwritten history. The Christian never forgets the dying groans on Calvary that gave to him his soul’s salvation; neither can an American citizen forget the great price paid for the life and liberty of this nation. Next to love of God is love of country.
It is not my object to awaken any morbid feelings of sentimental sorrow, or to open again the deep wounds which time has healed. Neither do I wish to serve up to an unhealthy imagination a dish of fearful horrors from which a healthy organization must turn away. I would only ask you to look at the shadows a little while, that the life and light of peace and plenty which now fill our land may by contrast impress upon your hearts a picture more beautiful than any artist could place on canvas. Shadows always make the light more beautiful.
In the fall of 1862 I found myself in Cape Girardeau, where hospitals were being improvised for the immediate use of the sick and dying then being brought in from the swamps by the returning regiments and up the rivers in closely crowded hospital boats. These hospitals were mere sheds filled with cots as thick as they could stand, with scarcely room for one person to pass between them. Pneumonia, typhoid, and camp fevers, and that fearful scourge of the southern swamps and rivers, chronic diarrhea, occupied every bed. A
surgeon once said to me, “There is nothing else there: here I see pneumonia, and there fever, and on that cot another disease, and I see nothing else! You had better stay away; the air is full of contagion, and contagion and sympathy do not go well together.”
One day a woman passed through these uncomfortable, illy-ventilated, hot, unclean, infected, wretched rooms, and she saw something else there. A hand reached out and clutched her dress. One caught her shawl and kissed it, another her hand, and pressed it to his fevered cheek; another in wild delirium, cried, “I want to go home! I want to go home! Lady! Lady! Take me in your chariot, take me away!” This was a fair-haired, blue-eyed boy of the South, who had left family and friends forever; obeying his country’s call, he enlisted under the stars and stripes because he could not be a traitor. He was therefore disowned, and was now dying among strangers with his mother and sisters not twenty miles away; and they knew that he was dying and would not come to him. Father, forgive them, they knew not what they did.
As this woman passed, these “diseases,” as the surgeon called them, whispered and smiled at each other, and even reached out and took hold of each others’ hands, saying, “She will take us home, I know her; she will not leave us here to die,” not dreaming that hovering just above them was a white robed one, who in a short time would take them to their heavenly home.
This woman failed to see on these cots aught but the human [beings] they were to her, the sons, brothers, husbands, and fathers of anxious weeping ones at home; and as such she cared for and thought of them. Arm in arm with health, she visited day by day every sufferer’s cot, doing, it is true, very little, but always taking with her from the outside world fresh air, fresh flowers, and all the hope and comfort she could find in her heart to give them. Now and then one would
totter forth into the open air, his good constitution having overcome disease, and the longings for life so strong within him that he grasped at straws, determined to live. If perchance he could get a furlough, in a few weeks a strong man would return and greet you with, “How do you do, I am on my way to my regiment!” Who this stranger might be, you could never imagine until reminded by him of the skeleton form and trembling steps you had so recently watched going to the landing, homeward bound. But if, as was too frequently the case, he was sent to convalescent camps, in a few weeks he was returned to hospital, and again to camp, and thus continued to vibrate between camp and hospital until hope and life were gone. This was the fate of thousands.
On a steamer from Cape Girardeau to Helena at table one day when the passengers were dining, among whom were several military officers, I heard a young major of the regular army very coolly remark that it was much cheaper for the government to keep her sick soldiers in hospitals on the river than to furlough them. A lady present quietly replied, “That is true, Major, if all were faithful to the government, but unfortunately a majority of the surgeons in the army have conscientious scruples, and verily believe it to be their duty to keep these sick men alive as long as possible. To be sure, their uneaten rations increased the hospital fund and so enabled your surgeons generously to provide all needed delicacies for the sick, but the pay was drawn by the soldiers from the government all the same. Don’t you think, Sir, it would be a trifle more economical,” continued the lady, “to send these poor fellows north for a few weeks, to regain their strength, that they might return at once to active service?” The laughter of his brother officers prevented my hearing his reply.
This young officer was the medical director at Helena, where I found over two thousand graves of Northeners. Two-thirds of these men might have been saved, could they
have been sent north. The surgeon in charge of the general hospital, when asked why he did not furlough some of the men from his over-crowded hospitals, replied that he had at one time and another made out certificates of disability for furlough for nearly every man in his hospital and for hundreds who rested on the nearby hill, but when sent for the signature and approval of the medical director, they had invariably been returned, disapproved; that he had also permitted the men themselves to go with their papers, only to have them severely reproved and ordered back to hospital, and, said he, with tears in his eyes, “many of them never returned, for, broken-hearted, they have lain down by the roadside and died.”
I once heard a person who had been instrumental in giving a dying boy back to his mother, that she might nurse him back to life, relate how it was done. The mother had succeeded in getting her son as far as St. Louis where his papers were to be sent. They came in the usual way to the medical director, were all wrong, of course—not made out according to army regulations and must therefore be returned to his regiment, which was somewhere with Sherman and could not be reached. The mother received the papers with that fearful word “disapproved” written upon them. There was nothing to do but to place her sick son in a St. Louis hospital, and leave him there to die; she must return to her family. She told her story with streaming eyes and a broken heart. The woman impulsively said, “Give me the papers,” and off she went to the medical director’s office. He was a man full six feet high, over fifty years of age, a head like Oliver Cromwell’s, a face stern as fate, and of the regular army. She entered his presence, seated herself, and waited to be spoken to.
Soon it came with, “What do you want?”
“To talk with you a moment, General,” she replied.
“No time for talking.”
“I will wait,” she said.
He wrote a few moments, then said, “May as well hear it now as ever—what is it?”
“I would like to ask you if you had a son in this volunteer service, sent up from the South as far as St. Louis, sick and like to die, and some ignorant, careless officer had made out his furlough papers wrong—”
“What do you want!”
“—would you not be glad, if you were away, if your poor boy could find a friend?”
“What do you want, I say? This is nothing to the purpose.”
“Do you not think that friend ought to do all she could to save your boy?”
“What is all this nonsense?”
“Only this: a poor mother is at the Soldiers’ Home with her dying son. The physicians say he may live if he is sent north, but will surely die if left here. His furlough papers have been sent on, and I have seen them, and know they are wrong. His regiment is with Sherman on the march. Cannot something be done for the boy—for his mother?”
“We have the army regulations, we cannot go behind them. You know if I do, they will rap me over the knuckles at Washington.”
“Oh, that your knuckles were mine. I would be willing to have them skinned; the skin would grow again, you know.”
“Where are these papers?” he said sharply.
“I have them here in my pocket.”
“Let me see them.”
The woman took them slowly out, blank side upwards, and gave them to him. He turned them and his face flushed as he said, “Why I have had these papers and disapproved them. This is my signature.”
She replied tremblingly, “I knew it, but forgive me. I thought maybe when you knew about it, General—and the mother was weeping with the skeleton arms of her boy around
her neck—I thought maybe you would do something or tell me something to do.”
“Suppose I do approve these papers, it will do no good. The general in command will stop them and censure me.”
“But you will have done all you could and have obeyed the higher law.”
In the meantime this truly noble man had firmly crossed out his own words and signature, and rewritten under it words of approval, and in a quick, husky tone, said, “Take it and don’t you come here again today.” As the woman raised her eyes to thank him, she saw a scowl on his brow, but a smile on his lips, and a tear in his eye.
“The general in command,” said she in relating the story, “never went behind the medical director’s signature. The boy started for home that night with his mother, full of hope.”
Not long after this an incident occurred showing how easily man yields to the higher law when once he makes humanity his standpoint. An erring boy of nineteen, who had deserted from a Minnesota regiment, changed his name, enlisted in the gunboat service from which he again deserted, again changed his name, and enlisted in a Wisconsin regiment, a little unsteady to be sure, but still a soldier. He was wounded in a battle, honorably discharged from the service, and paid off. On Saturday night he reached St. Louis and found his way to one of her lowest dens, was drugged and robbed of everything he possessed. On Monday he was found tossing from side to side stricken by disease. His surroundings were terrible, and he was lying on an old, filthy mattress which had been thrown into the open hall by the frightened inmates. He was screaming with pain and was at times delirious. As soon, however, as he heard the soothing tones of a human voice, and recognized the hand of kindness on his burning brow, he cried, “Mother! Oh, Mother, forgive me, God forgive me! I have sinned. What shall I do! What shall I do!” Conscience and disease were doing their work.
Softly speaking to him words of comfort and hope, our friend released herself from his grasp, promising to return in half an hour to take him away. This was easier said than done. This soldier was now a citizen, and could not, therefore, be admitted into a military hospital. His disease was of such a nature that in all probability he must die—but his widowed mother, far away, must she know that her darling soldier had died in such a place? God forbid! An order must be had to place him in a military hospital.
The woman goes to her old friend, the medical director, and tells her story in as few words as possible, saying, “General, write an order quick to the surgeon in charge of the Fifth Street hospital, that the boy may be received. I also want an ambulance, mattress, and bedding, and some men to help me move him.”
“Yes, yes, but listen, I have no right, I can’t do it.”
“I know—I know, but please do hurry—I promised to be back in half an hour, and the boy will expect me.”
The general, calling a boy and imitating her voice, said, “Hurry, hurry, boy! Get the best ambulance we have, a good mattress and bedding, and some men and go with Madame and do whatever she bids you to do. Here is the order, what else do you want? Henceforth we do what you wish and no questions asked. It is the easiest way and I guess the only way to get along with you.” The mother mourned her son’s death, but not his disgrace. In after months, this worthy officer by daring to take responsibility performed many acts which will gladden his dying hours.
In this way, one could be snatched from suffering and death now and then, but Oh! the thousands that were beyond the reach of human aid, and the numbers that no private individual power could help—only the great military power! This conviction first led to the thought of providing, if possible, some place where invalids could be sent north, without the trouble of furloughs. The idea of northern military hospitals
seemed practicable and so natural that we never once thought the authorities would oppose the movement. For nearly a year this question was agitated and urged with all the force that logic, position, and influence could bring to bear; but all in vain. Hope was well nigh dead within us.
This depression in the South because of the utter failure of the government to provide a way by which the enfeebled soldiers might be restored to strength at last suggested the thought of going directly to the head, to the President. By sending it up by one authority and another, by this officer and that one, we began to feel that the message lost the flavor of truth, and got cold before it reached the deciding power; and because it was so lukewarm he spued it out of his mouth. It is always best if you wish to secure an object, if you have a certain purpose to accomplish, to go at once to the highest power, be your own petitioner, in temporal as in spiritual matters, officiate at your own altar, be your own priest.
I am going to give you another chapter in my own experience, as it was, if I can do so, without the least coloring. There is not a more difficult task than that of relating simple facts in such a manner as to convey an entirely correct impression. The difficulty is increased when the relator is an interested party. I trust I shall not be accused of egotism if I give the exact conversations between Mr. Lincoln and myself, as taken down at the time, for in no other way can I so well picture to you our much loved and martyred president as he then appeared at the White House. As I said before, the necessity for establishing military hospitals in the North had long been a subject of much thought among our people, but it was steadily opposed by the authorities.
By the advice of friends and with an intense feeling that something must be done, I went to Washington. I entered the White House, not with fear and trembling, but strong and self-possessed, fully conscious of the righteousness of my mission. I was received without delay. I had never seen Mr.
Lincoln before. He was alone, in a medium sized office-like room, no elegance about him, no elegance in him. He was plainly clad in a suit of black that illy fitted him. No fault of his tailor, however; such a figure could not be fitted. He was tall and lean, and as he sat in a folded up sort of way in a deep arm chair, one would almost have thought him deformed. At his side stood a high writing desk and table combined; plain straw matting covered the floor; a few stuffed chairs and sofa covered with green worsted completed the furniture of the presence chamber of the president of this great republic. When I first saw him his head was bent forward, his chin resting on his breast, and in his hand a letter which I had just sent in to him.
He raised his eyes, saying, “Mrs. Harvey?”
I hastened forward, and replied, “Yes, and I am glad to see you, Mr. Lincoln.” So much for republican presentations and ceremony. The President took my hand, hoped I was well, but there was no smile of welcome on his face. It was rather the stern look of the judge who had decided against me. His face was peculiar; bone, nerve, vein, and muscle were all so plainly seen; deep lines of thought and care were around his mouth and eyes. The word “justice” came into my mind, as though I could read it upon his face—I mean that extended sense of the word that comprehends the practice of every virtue which reason prescribes and society should expect. The debt we owe to God, to man, to ourselves, when paid, is but a simple act of justice, a duty performed. This attribute seemed the source of Mr. Lincoln’s strength. He motioned me to a chair. I sat, and silently read his face while he was reading a paper written by one of our senators, introducing me and my mission. When he had finished reading this he looked up, ran his fingers through his hair, well silvered, though the brown then predominated; his beard was more whitened.
In a moment he looked at me with a good deal of sad severity and said, “Madam, this matter of northern hospitals has been talked of a great deal, and I thought it was settled, but it seems not. What have you got to say about it?”
“Only this, Mr. Lincoln, that many soldiers in our western army on the Mississippi River must have northern air or die. There are thousands of graves all along our southern rivers and in the swamps for which the government is responsible, ignorantly, undoubtedly, but this ignorance must not continue. If you will permit these men to come north you will have ten men where you have one now.”
The president could not see the force or logic in this last argument. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “If your reasoning were correct, it would be a good argument.” I saw that I had misspoken. “I don’t see how,” he continued, “sending one sick man north is going to give us in a year ten well ones.”
A quizzical smile played over his face at my slight embarrassment. “Mr. Lincoln, you understand me, I think. I intended to say, if you will let the sick come north, you will have ten well men in the army one year from today, where you have one well one now; whereas, if you do not let them come north, you will not have one from the ten, for they will all be dead.”
“Yes, yes, I understand you; but if they are sent north, they will desert; where is the difference?”
“Dead men cannot fight,” I answered, “and they may not desert.”
Mr. Lincoln’s eye flashed as he replied, “A fine way, a fine way to decimate the army, we should never get a man of them back, not one, not one.”
“Indeed, but you must pardon me when I say you are mistaken; you do not understand our people. You do not trust them sufficiently. They are as true and as loyal to the government
as you say. The loyalty is among the common soldiers and they have ever been the chief sufferers.”
“This is your opinion,” he said with a sort of a sneer. “Mrs. Harvey, how many men do you suppose the government was paying in the Army of the Potomac at the battle of Antietam, and how many men do you suppose could be got for active service at that time? I wish you would give a guess.”
“I know nothing of the Army of the Potomac, only there were some noble sacrifices there. When I spoke of loyalty, I referred to our western army.”
“Well, now, give a guess. How many?”
“I cannot, Mr. President.”
He threw himself around in the chair, one leg over the arm, and again spoke slowly: “This war might have been finished at that time if every man had been in his place that was able to be there, but they were scattered hither and thither over the North, some on furloughs, and in one way or another, gone; so that out of 170,000 men which the government was paying at that time, only 83,000 could be got for action. The consequences, you know, proved nearly disastrous.”
“It was very sad but the delinquents were certainly not in northern hospitals, neither were they deserters therefrom, for there are none. This is, therefore, no argument against them.”
“Well, well, Mrs. Harvey, you go and see the Secretary of War and talk with him and hear what he has to say.” This he said thoughtfully, and took up the letter I had given him, and after writing something on the back of it gave it to me.
“May I return to you, Mr. Lincoln?” I asked.
“Certainly,” he replied, and his voice was gentler than it had been before.
I left him for the war department. I found written on the back of the letter these words, “Admit Mrs. Harvey at once; listen to what she says; she is a lady of intelligence
and talks sense. A. Lincoln.” Not, of course, displeased with the introduction, I went on my way to Mr. Stanton, our secretary of war, about whose severity I had heard so much that I must confess I dreaded the interview; but I was kindly received, listened to respectfully, and answered politely. And let me say here, as a passing tribute to this great and good man, that I never knew a clearer brain, a truer heart, a nobler spirit than Edwin M. Stanton. I have watched him by the hour, listening to and deciding questions of minor moment as well as those of greater importance—those upon which the fate of the nation depended, and yet he never wavered. Quick to see the right, he never hesitated to act. His foresight and his strength seemed at times more than human. His place as a statesman will not be filled in this century.
But to return to my interview with him. After understanding the object for which I came, he told me he had sent the Surgeon-General to New Orleans with directions to come up the river and examine all hospitals. In short, I understood he had started on a tour of inspection, which meant nothing at all so far as the suffering was concerned. I told Mr. Stanton, “Our western hospitals have never received any benefit from these inspections, and we have very little confidence that any good would result from them. Any person with discernment, with a medium allowance of common sense and humanity, who is loyal, and has been through our southern river hospitals, knows and feels the necessity for what I ask, and yet you say you have never received a report to this effect. The truth is, the medical authorities know the heads of departments do not wish hospitals established so far away from army lines, and report accordingly. I wish this could be overruled; can nothing be done?”
“Nothing, until the Surgeon-General returns,” Mr. Stanton replied.
“Good morning,” I said, and left him, not at all disappointed.
Returning to Mr. Lincoln, I found it was past the usual hour for receiving and no one was in the waiting-room. The messenger said I had better go directly into the President’s room. It would be more comfortable waiting there, and there was only one gentleman with him and he would soon be through. I found my way to the back part of the room, and seated myself on a sofa in such a position that the desk was between Mr. Lincoln and me. I do not think that he knew I was there. The gentleman with him had given him a paper. The President looked at it carefully and said, “Yes, this is sufficient endorsement for anybody; what do you want?”
I could not hear the reply distinctly, but the promotion of somebody in the army, either a son or a brother, was strongly urged. I heard the words, “I see there are no vacancies among brigadiers, from the fact that so many colonels are commanding brigades.”
At this the President threw himself forward in his chair in such a manner as to show me the most curious, comical face in the world. He was looking the man straight in the eye, with the left hand raised to a horizontal position, and his right hand patting it coaxingly, and said, “My friend, let me tell you something; you are a farmer, I believe; if not, you will understand me. Suppose you had a large cattle yard, full of all sorts of cattle, cows, oxen, and bulls, and you kept selling your cows and oxen, taking good care of your bulls; bye and bye, you would find that you had nothing but a yard full of old bulls, good for nothing under heaven, and it will be just so with my army if I don’t stop making brigadier generals.” The man was answered; he could scarcely laugh, though he tried to do so, but you should have seen Mr. Lincoln laugh—he laughed all over, and fully enjoyed the point if no one else did. The story, if not elegant, was certainly apropos.
As I commenced to tell you everything I remember of this singular man, this must fill its place. The gentleman
soon departed, fully satisfied, I doubt not, for it was a saying at Washington when one met a petitioner, “Has Mr. Lincoln told you a story? If he has, it is all day with you. He never says 'yes’ after a story.”
I stepped forward as soon as the door closed. The President motioned to a chair near him. “Well, what did the Secretary of War say?”
I gave a full account of the interview, and then said, “I have nowhere else to go but to you.”
He replied earnestly, “Mr. Stanton knows very well that there is an acting surgeon-general here, and that Hammond will not be back these two months. I will see the Secretary of War myself, and you come in the morning.”
I arose to take leave, when he bade me not to hasten, spoke kindly of my work, said he fully appreciated the spirit in which I came. He smiled pleasantly and bade me good evening.
As I left the White House, I met Owen Lovejoy who greeted me cordially and asked, “How long are you going to stay here?”
“Until I get what I came after,” I replied.
“That’s right, that’s right; go on, I believe in the final perseverance of the saints.”
I have never forgotten these words, perhaps it is because they were the last I ever heard him utter.
I returned in the morning, full of hope, thinking of the pleasant face I had left the evening before, but no smile greeted me. The President was evidently annoyed by something, and waited for me to speak, which I did not do. I afterward learned his annoyance was caused by a woman pleading for the life of a son who was sentenced to be shot for desertion under very aggravating circumstances.
After a moment he said, “Well,” with a peculiar contortion of face I never saw in anybody else.
I replied, “Well,” and he looked at me a little astonished, I fancied, and said, “Have you nothing to say?”
“Nothing, Mr. President, until I hear your decision. You bade me come this morning; have you decided?”
“No, but I believe this idea of northern hospitals is a great humbug, and I am tired of hearing about it.” He spoke impatiently.
I replied, “I regret to add a feather’s weight to your already overwhelming care and responsibility. I would rather have stayed at home.”
With a kind of half smile, he said, “I wish you had.”
I answered him as though he had not smiled. “Nothing would have given me greater pleasure; but a keen sense of duty to this government, justice and mercy to its most loyal supporters, and regard for your honor and position made me come. The people cannot understand why their friends are left to die when with proper care they might live and do good service for their country. Mr. Lincoln, I believe you will be grateful for my coming.” He looked at me intently; I could not tell if he were annoyed or not, and as he did not speak, I continued: “I do not come to plead for the lives of criminals, not for the lives of deserters, not for those who have been in the least disloyal. I come to plead for the lives of those who were the first to hasten to the support of this government, who helped to place you where you are, because they trusted you. Men who have done all they could, and now when flesh, and nerve, and muscle are gone, still pray for your life and the life of this republic. They scarcely ask for that for which I plead—they expect to sacrifice their lives for their country. Many on their cots, faint, sick, and dying, say, 'We would gladly do more, but I suppose that is all right.’ I know that a majority of them would live and be strong men again if they could be sent north. I say I know, because when I was sick among them last spring, surrounded by every comfort, with the best of care, and determined to
get well, I grew weaker day by day, until, not being under military law, my friends brought me north. I recovered entirely, simply by breathing northern air.”
While I was speaking the expression of Mr. Lincoln’s face had changed many times. He had never taken his eye from me. Now every muscle in his face seemed to contract, and then suddenly expand. As he opened his mouth you could almost hear them snap as he said, “You assume to know more than I do,” and closed his mouth as though he never expected to open it again, sort of slammed it to.
I could scarcely reply. I was hurt, and thought the tears would come, but rallied in a moment and said, “You must pardon me, Mr. President, I intend no disrespect, but it is because of this knowledge, because I do know what you do not know, that I come to you. If you knew what I do and had not ordered what I ask for, I should know that an appeal to you would be vain; but I believe the people have not trusted you for naught. The question only is whether you believe me or not. If you believe me you will give me hospitals, if not, well--”
With the same snapping of muscle he again said, “You assume to know more than surgeons do.”
“Oh, no! Mr. Lincoln, I could not perform an amputation nearly as well as some of them do; indeed, I do not think I could do it at all. But this is true—I do not come here for your favor, I am not an aspirant for military honor. While it would be the pride of my life to be able to win your respect and confidence, still, this I can waive for the time being. Now the medical authorities know as well as I do that you are opposed to establishing northern military hospitals, and they report to please you; they desire your favor. I come to you from no casual tour of inspection, passing rapidly through the general hospitals, in the principal cities on the river, with a cigar in my mouth and a rattan in my hand, talking to the surgeon in charge of the price of cotton and
abusing the generals in our army for not knowing and performing their duty better, and finally coming into the open air, with a long-drawn breath as though just having escaped suffocation, and complacently saying, 'You have a very fine hospital here; the boys seem to be doing very well, a little more attention to ventilation is perhaps desirable.’
“It is not thus; I have visited the hospitals, but from early morning until late at night sometimes. I have visited the regimental and general hospitals on the Mississippi River from Quincy to Vicksburg, and I come to you from the cots of men who have died, who might have lived had you permitted. This is hard to say, but it is none the less true.”
During the time that I had been speaking Mr. Lincoln’s brow had become very much contracted, and a severe scowl had settled over his whole face. He sharply asked how many men Wisconsin had in the field, that is, how many did she send? I replied, “About 50,000, I think, I do not know exactly.”
“That means she has about 20,000 now.” He looked at me, and said, “You need not look so sober, they are not all dead.”
I did not reply. I had noticed the veins in his face filling full within a few moments, and one vein across his forehead was as large as my little finger, and it gave him a frightful look.
Soon, with a quick, impatient movement of his whole frame, he said, “I have a good mind to dismiss every man of them from the service and have no more trouble with them!”
I was surprised at his lack of self-control, and I knew he did not mean one word of what he said, but what would come next? As I looked at him, I was troubled, fearing I had said something wrong. He was very pale.
The silence was painful, and I said as quietly as I could, “They have been faithful to the government; they have been faithful to you; they will still be loyal to the government,
do what you will with them; but if you will grant my petition you will be glad as long as you live. The prayer of grateful hearts will give you strength in the hour of trial, and strong and willing arms will return to fight your battles.”
The President bowed his head, and with a look of sadness I can never forget, said, “I never shall be glad any more.” All severity had passed from his face. He seemed looking backward and heartward, and for a moment he seemed to forget he was not alone; a more than mortal anguish rested on his face.
The spell must be broken, so I said, “Do not speak so, Mr. President. Who will have so much reason to rejoice when the government is restored, as it will be?”
“I know, I know,” he said, placing a hand on each side and bowing forward, “but the springs of life are wearing away.”
I asked if he felt his great cares were injuring his health.
“No,” he replied, “not directly, perhaps.”
I asked if he slept well, and he said he never was a good sleeper, and, of course, slept less now than ever before. He said the people did not yet appreciate the magnitude of this rebellion, and that it would be a long time before the end.
I began to feel I was occupying time valuable to him and belonging to him. As I arose to take leave, I said, “Have you decided upon your answer to the object of my visit?”
He replied, “No. Come tomorrow morning. No, it is [cabinet] meeting tomorrow—yes, come tomorrow at twelve o’clock, there is not much for the cabinet to do tomorrow.” He arose and bade me a cordial goodmorning.
The next morning I arose with a terribly depressed feeling that perhaps I was to fail in the object for which I came. I found myself constantly looking at my watch and wondering if twelve o’clock would ever come. At last I ascended the steps of the White House as all visitors were being dismissed, because the President would receive no one on that
day. I asked the messenger if that meant me, and he said, “No. The President desires you to wait for the cabinet will soon adjourn.” I waited, and waited, and waited, three long hours and more, during which time the President sent out twice, saying the cabinet would soon adjourn, that I was to wait. I was fully prepared for defeat, and every word of my reply was chosen and carefully placed. I walked the rooms and studied an immense map that covered one side of the reception room. I listened, and at last heard many footsteps—the cabinet had adjourned. Mr. Lincoln did not wait to send for me but came directly into the room where I was. It was the first time I had noticed him standing. He was very tall and moved with a shuffling, awkward motion.
He came forward, rubbing his hands, and saying, “My dear Madam, I am very sorry to have kept you waiting. We have but this moment adjourned.”
I replied, “My waiting is no matter, but you must be very tired, and we will not talk tonight.”
He said, “No. Sit down,” and placed himself in a chair beside me, and said, “Mrs. Harvey, I only wish to tell you that an order equivalent to granting a hospital in your state has been issued nearly twenty-four hours.”
I could not speak, I was so entirely unprepared for it. I wept for joy, I could not help it. When I could speak I said, “God bless you. I thank you in the name of thousands who will bless you for the act.” Then, remembering how many orders had been issued and countermanded, I said, “Do you mean, really and truly, that we are going to have a hospital now?”
With a look full of humanity and benevolence, he said, “I do most certainly hope so.” He spoke very emphatically, and no reference was made to any previous opposition. He said he wished me to come and see him in the morning and he would give me a copy of the order.
I was so much agitated I could not talk with him. He noticed it and commenced talking upon other subjects. He asked me to look at the map before referred to, which, he said, gave a very correct idea of the locality of the principal battle grounds of Europe. “It is a fine map,” he said, pointing out Waterloo and the different battle fields of the Crimea, then, smiling, said, “I am afraid you will not like it as well when I tell you whose work it is.”
I replied, “It is well done, whosever it may be. Who did it, Mr. Lincoln?”
“McClellan, and he certainly did do this well. He did it while he was at West Point.” There was nothing said for awhile. Perhaps he was balancing in his own mind the two words which were then agitating the heart of the American people, words which have ever throbbed the great heart of nations, words whose power every individual has recognized—“success,” and “failure.”
I left shortly after with the promise to call next morning, as he desired me to do, at nine o’clock. I suppose the excitement caused the intense suffering of that night. I was very ill and it was ten o’clock the next morning before I was able to send for a carriage to keep my appointment with the President. It was past the hour; more than fifty persons were in the waiting room. I did not expect an audience, but sent in my name and said I would call again. The messenger said, “Do not go, I think the President will see you now.”
I had been but a moment among anxious, expectant, waiting faces, when the door opened and the voice said, “Mrs. Harvey, the President will see you now.” I arose, not a little embarrassed to be gazed at so curiously by so many with a look that said as plainly as words could, “Who are you?” As I passed the crowd, one person said, “She has been here every day, and what is more, she is going to win.”
I entered the presence of Mr. Lincoln for the last time. He smiled very graciously and drew a chair near him, and said, “Come here and sit down.” He had a paper in his hand which he said was for me to keep. It was a copy of the order just issued. I thanked him, not only for the order but for the manner and spirit in which it had been given, then said I must apologize for not having been there at nine o’clock as he desired me to be, but that I had been sick all night.
He looked up with, “Did joy make you sick?”
I said, “I don’t know, very likely it was the relaxation of nerve after intense excitement.”
Still looking at me he said, “I suppose you would have been mad if I had said no?”
I replied, “No, Mr. Lincoln, I should have been neither angry nor sick.”
“What would you have done?” he asked curiously. “I should have been here at nine o’clock, Mr. President.”
“Well,” he laughingly said, “I think I acted wisely, then,” and suddenly looking up, “Don’t you ever get angry?” he asked, “I know a little woman not very unlike you who gets mad sometimes.”
I replied, “I never get angry when I have an object to gain of the importance of the one under consideration; to get angry, you know, would only weaken my cause, and destroy my influence.”
“That is true, that is true,” he said, decidedly. “This hospital I shall name for you.”
I said, “No, but if you would not consider the request indelicate, I would like to have it named for Mr. Harvey.”
“Yes, just as well, it shall be so understood if you prefer it. I honored your husband, and felt his loss, and now let us have this matter settled at once.”
He took a card and wrote a few words upon it, requesting the Secretary of War to name the hospital “Harvey Hospital,” in memory of my husband, and to gratify me he gave
me the card, saying, “Now do you take that directly to the Secretary of War and have it understood.” I thanked him, but did not take it to Mr. Stanton. The hospital was already named. I expressed a wish that he might never regret his present action, and said I was sorry to have taken so much of his time.
“Oh, no, you need not be,” he said kindly.
“You will not wish to see me again, Mr. President.”
“I didn’t say that and shall not.”
I said, “You have been very kind to me and I am grateful for it.”
He looked at me from under his eyebrows and said, “You almost think me handsome, don’t you?”
His face then beamed with such kind benevolence and was lighted by such a pleasant smile that I looked at him, and with my usual impulse, said, clasping my hands together, “You are perfectly lovely to me, now, Mr. Lincoln.” He colored a little and laughed most heartily.
As I arose to go, he reached out his hand, that hand in which there was so much power and so little beauty, and held mine clasped and covered in his own. I bowed my head and pressed my lips most reverently upon the sacred shield, even as I would upon my country’s shrine. A silent prayer went up from my heart, “God bless you, Abraham Lincoln.” I heard him say goodbye, and I was gone. Thus ended the most interesting interview of my life with one of the most remarkable men of the age.
My impressions of him had been so varied, his character had assumed so many different phases, his very looks had changed so frequently and so entirely, that it almost seemed to me I had been conversing with half a dozen different men. He blended in his character the most yielding flexibility with the most unflinching firmness, child-like simplicity and weakness with statesmanlike wisdom and masterly strength, but over and around all was thrown the mantle of an unquestioned integrity.