The proclamation of President Lincoln calling for volunteers, was answered by the voices of freemen from every hill-top and valley, and almost fabulous numbers stood ready and anxious to devote themselves to the vindication of the national honor. Wild indeed was the enthusiasm that ran from heart to heart, linking the great west and the east together. But one sentiment found expression from any lip among the excited populace, and that sentiment was, the Union should be sustained at all hazards. Wealth, life, everything must be counted as dust till the Union had redeemed itself. Who in New York does not remember how the city was ablaze with flags and tri-colored bunting on the memorable day, when, “the Seventh regiment,” responded to the call? Never did a finer or braver body of young men pass down Broadway. Although their arms were not now corded or hands hardened by labor, their prompt action was a living proof that gentle breeding can be associated with hearts of oak, with stern determination, coolness and discretion. Leaping to their arms at the first note of danger, impatient of delay and thrilling with the hope of weaving in their peace-won wreaths laurels earned by hard fighting, this regiment marched from its armory, the very first of the Empire State to obey the call to arms. Their object was war. They hoped ardently that it was no light duty which might fall upon them. They expected to meet hard work and hard fighting too before the capital was reached, for danger menaced them on all sides. Baltimore had risen in revolt even while they were arming for the march and they fully depended on fighting their way through its turbulent streets.
On the 19th of April, at the very time revolt broke out in Baltimore, a very different scene was going on in New York.
Amidst unparalleled enthusiasm the volunteer soldiers of New England and New York struck hands on their march to the rescue of the national capital. And beautiful the streets looked, with bannered parapets, peopled roofs, windows thronged with sympathetic beauty, and sidewalks densely packed with multitudes of excited and applauding citizens.
But it required only a single glance at the faces of this great multitude to become convinced that no mere gala or festive purpose had called out this magnificent demonstration. In every eye burned the unquenchable fire of patriotic ardor, and in every heart was the aspiration to join in defence of one common country. Old men, who must have seen the earlier struggles of our history, came forth to bless the young soldiers on their march to take share in a grander and more noble struggle than any the American continent had yet witnessed.
Mothers, with tears of joyous pride half blinding them, helped to buckle on the accoutrements of their sons, and kissed them as they went forth to battle. Sisters and sweethearts, fathers and wives, friends and relatives, all were represented, and had their individual characteristics in the immense concourse of life which held possession of Broadway.
Perhaps if there could have risen from the dead one of the old Girondists, after being bloodily put away to repose during the great French Revolution, and if he had been dropped down in New York,—by allowing a little for advance in costumes and architecture, he might have seen many curious points of resemblance between the scenes and those of seventy years ago in Paris. Then the inspiration of liberty ran through the people, and the most powerful aristocracy of Europe was destroyed. The result of the struggle which broke out in New York, and in the streets of Baltimore, in one day, time has yet to reveal.
The children of New York, the Seventh regiment, the pets and pride of her society, were going forth to their first war duty. Eight hundred chosen young men, with threads woven to hold them, wherever they went, to the million hearts they left behind—moved down Broadway and started for the capital.
Eight hundred young citizens, each with musket and knapsack, borne along calmly and impassively on a tide of vocal patriotism, making the air resonant with shouts and warm with the breath of prayer.
With that regiment went young Winthrop, on that memorable day, who afterwards passed from the literary fame he had so richly earned, to military glory at the battle of Big Bethel. There also was O’Brien, one of the most promising poets of the age, doomed like Winthrop to reap bloody laurels, and fill a soldier’s grave. Let no one say that the Empire State was not nobly represented in these young soldiers. Gentlemen as they were, one and all, no man was heard to complain of hard work, soldiers’ fare, or no fare at all, as sometimes happened to them. How cheerful they were in the cedar groves for two days and nights—how they endured the hardships of a bivouac on soft earth—how they digged manfully in the trenches. With what supreme artistic finish their work was achieved—how they cleared the brushwood from the glacis—how they blistered their hands and then hardened them with toil—how they chafed at being obliged to evade Baltimore, and how faithfully they guarded Washington and achieved the object for which they were sent, will be best given in a description of the march from Annapolis of which O’Brien has left a brilliant record.
Nor were their services in protecting the capital all that the Seventh regiment of New York has given to its country. Many a regiment which has since won lasting fame on the battle-field has been officered to some extent from its ranks.