There was, during the rebellion, a popular rhyme declaring that “In Sixty-one, the war begun; in Sixty-two, we’ll put it through; in Sixty-three, the nigger’ll be free; in Sixty-four, the war’ll be o’er—and Johnny come marching home.” The predictions were substantially fulfilled. On January 1st, 1863, nearly 4,000,000 slaves who had been merchandise became men in the sight of the law, and the war, having been literally “put through” with great energy, was beginning to promise a definite success to the Federal cause. But the Union owed this advance less to its own energy than to the great-hearted, patient, and honest man who was at its head, and who was more for his country and less for himself than any one who had ever before waded through the mud of politics to so high a position. That so tender-hearted a man should have been so firm in great trials, is the more remarkable when we remember that his gentleness often interfered with justice. When the rebels, by their atrocities to the black soldiers who fell into their hands, caused him to issue an order (July 30th, 1863), declaring that “for every soldier of the United States killed in violation of the laws of war a rebel soldier shall be executed, and for every one sold into slavery a rebel soldier shall be placed at hard labour,” it seemed as if vigorous retaliation was at last to be inflicted. “But,” as Ripley and Dana state, “Mr. Lincoln’s natural tender-heartedness prevented him from ever ordering such an execution.”
Lincoln having discovered in the case of M‘Clellan that incompetent or unlucky generals could be “relieved” without endangering the country, General Burnside, after the disaster of Fredericksburg, was set aside (January 24th, 1863), and General Joseph Hooker appointed in his place to command the army of the Potomac. From the 27th of April, General Hooker advanced to Kelly’s Ford, and thence to Chancellorsville. A force under General Stoneman had succeeded in cutting the railroad in the rear of the rebels, so as to prevent their receiving reinforcements from Richmond, General Hooker intending to attack them flank and rear. On the 2nd May, he met the enemy at Chancellorsville, where, after a terrible battle, which continued with varying success for three days, he was compelled to withdraw his army to the north bank of the Rappahannock, having lost nearly 18,000 men. The rebel loss was also very large. General Stonewall Jackson was killed through an accidental shot from one of his own men. Inspired by this success, the Confederate General Lee resolved to move into the enemy’s country. On the 9th June, he advanced north-west to the valley of the Shenandoah. On the 13th, the rebel General Ewell, with a superior force, attacked and utterly defeated General Milroy at Winchester. On the 14th July, the rebel army marched into Maryland, with the intention of invading Pennsylvania. A great excitement sprung up in the North. In a few days the President issued a proclamation, calling for 120,000 troops from the states most in danger. They were promptly sent, and, in addition to these, thousands formed themselves into improvised companies and hurried off to battle—for in those days almost every man, at one time or another, had a turn at the war, the writer himself being one of those who went out in this emergency. The danger was indeed great, and had Lee been the Napoleon which his friends thought him, he might well enough have advanced to Philadelphia. That on one occasion three of his scouts came within sight of Harrisburg I am certain, having seen them with my own eyes, though no one then deemed it credible. But two years after, when I mentioned it to a wounded Confederate Colonel who had come in to receive parole in West Virginia, he laughed, and assured me that, on the day of which I spoke, three of his men returned, boasting that they had been in sight of Harrisburg, but that, till he heard my story, he had never believed them. And this was confirmed by another Confederate officer who was with him. On the evening of that day on which I saw the scouts, there was a small skirmish at Sporting Hill, six miles south of Harrisburg, in which two guns from the artillery company to which I belonged took part, and this was, I believe, the only fighting which took place so far north during the war.
And now there came on the great battle of Gettysburg, which proved to be the turning-point of the whole conflict between North and South. For our army, as soon as the rebels advanced north, advanced with them, and when they reached Hagerstown, Maryland, the Federal headquarters were at Frederick City, our whole force, as Raymond states, being thus interposed between the rebels and Baltimore and Washington. On that day, General Hooker was relieved from command of the army, and General Meade appointed in his place. This was a true-hearted, loyal soldier and gallant gentleman, but by no means hating the rebels so much at heart as to wish to “improve them all away from the face of the earth,” as General Birney and others of the sterner sort would have gladly done. General Meade at once marched towards Harrisburg, upon which the enemy was also advancing. On the 1st July, Generals Howard and Reynolds engaged the Confederates near Gettysburg, but the foe being strongly posted, and superior in numbers, compelled General Howard to fall back to Cemetery Hill, around which all the corps of the Union army soon gathered. About three o’clock, July 2nd, the rebels came down in terrible force and with great fury upon the 3rd Corps, commanded by General Sickles, who soon had his leg shot off. As the corps seemed lost, General Birney, who succeeded him, was urged to fall back, but he, as one who knew no fear—being a grim fanatic—held his ground with the most desperate bravery till reinforced by the 1st and 6th Corps. The roar of the cannon in this battle was like the sound of a hundred thunderstorms, when, at one o’clock on the 3rd July, the enemy opened an artillery fire on us from 150 guns for two hours, we replying with 100; and I have been assured that, on this occasion, the wild rabbits, losing all fear of man in their greater terror at this horrid noise, ran for shelter, and leaped into the bosoms of the gunners. Now the battle raged terribly, as it did the day before, when General Wadsworth, of New York, went into fight with nearly 2000 men and came out with 700. Hancock was badly wounded. The rebels fought up to the muzzles of our guns, and killed the artillery horses, as many can well remember. And the fight was hand-to-hand when Sedgwick came up with his New Yorkers, who, though they had marched thirty-two miles in seventeen hours, dashed in desperately, hurrahing as if it were the greatest frolic in the world. And this turned the fight. The rebel Ewell now attacked the right, which had been weakened to support the centre, and the fighting became terrible; but the 1st and 6th again came to the rescue, and drove them back, leaving great heaps of dead. Of all the soldiers I ever found these New Yorkers the most courteous in camp and the gayest under privations or in battle. On the 4th July, General Slocum made an attack at daybreak on Ewell, who commanded Stonewall Jackson’s men, but Ewell, after a desperate resistance, was at length beaten.
The victory was complete, but terrible. On the Union side were 23,000 killed, wounded, and missing, and the losses of the rebels were even greater, General Lee leaving in our hands 13,621 prisoners. Lee was crushed, but General Meade, in the words of Arnold, “made no vigorous pursuit. Had Sheridan or Grant commanded in place of Meade, Lee’s army would never have recrossed the Potomac.” It is said that President Lincoln was greatly grieved at this oversight, and once, when asked if at any time the war might have been sooner terminated by better management, he replied, “Yes, at Malvern Hill, where M‘Clellan failed to command an immediate advance upon Richmond; at Chancellorsville, when Hooker failed to reinforce Sedgwick; and at Gettysburg, when Meade failed to attack Lee in his retreat at the bend of the Potomac.”
It is said that General Meade did not know, until long after Lee had crossed (July 14th, 1863), or late in the morning, that he had done so. Now I knew, as did all with me, at two o’clock the day before (July 13th), when General Lee would cross. We knew that we could not borrow an axe from any country house, because the rebels had taken them all to make their bridge with; for I myself went to several for an axe, and could not get one. During the night, I was awake on guard within a mile or very little more of the crossing, and could hear the thunder and rattle of the rebel ambulances and caissons in headlong haste, and the groans of the wounded, to whom the rebels gave little care. If General Meade knew nothing of all this, there were hundreds in his army who did. But the truth is, that as General Meade was one who would never strike a man when he was down, so, in the entire chivalry of his nature, he would not pursue a flying and conquered foe. This was to be expected from one who was the Sidney of our war, and yet it was but mistaken policy for an enemy which wore ornaments made of the bones of Federal soldiers, whose women abused prisoners, and whose programme, published before the war began, advocated the shooting of pickets. Such a foe requires a Cromwell, and in Grant they got him.
During this summer of 1863, a part of the battle-field was bought by the State of Pennsylvania, and kept for a burial-ground for those who had fallen in the fight. On November 19th, 1863, it was duly consecrated with solemn ceremonies, on which occasion President Lincoln made a brief address, which has been thought, perhaps not without reason, to be the finest ever delivered on such an occasion.
“Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that the nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus so far nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honoured dead we take increased devotion to the cause for which they here gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that the dead shall not have died in vain—that the nation shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom—and that the Government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
These simple yet grand words greatly moved his hearers, and among the thousands could be heard sobs and broken cheers. On this occasion, Edward Everett, “New England’s most polished and graceful orator,” also spoke. And this was the difference between them—that while Everett made those present think only of him living in their admiration of his art, the listeners forgot Lincoln, and wept in thinking of the dead. But it is to Mr. Everett’s credit that on this occasion, speaking to the President, he said, “Ah! Mr. Lincoln, how gladly would I exchange my hundred pages to have been the author of your twenty lines.”
Meanwhile, the army of the West had been far from idle. The great Mississippi, whose arms reach to sixteen states, was held by the rebels, who thus imprisoned the North-West. Those who ask why the Confederacy was not allowed to withdraw in peace, need only look at the map of North America for an answer. And to President Lincoln belongs specially the credit of having planned the great campaign which freed the Mississippi. He was constantly busy with it; “his room,” says Arnold, “was ever full of maps and plans; he marked upon them every movement, and no subordinate was at all times so completely a master of the situation.” He soon appreciated the admirable qualities of the unflinching Grant, and determined that he should lead this decisive campaign in the West. General Grant had many enemies, and some of them accused him of habits of intemperance. To one of these, endeavouring to thus injure the credit of the General, President Lincoln said, “Does Grant get drunk?” “They say so,” was the reply. “Are you quite sure he gets drunk?” “Quite.” There was a pause, which the President broke by gravely exclaiming, “I wonder where he buys his whiskey!” “And why do you want to know?” was the astonished answer. “Because if I did,” replied Mr. Lincoln, “I’d send a barrel or two of it round to some other Generals I know of.”
In January, 1863, Generals M‘Clernand and Sherman, commanding the army of the Mississippi, acting with the fleet under command of Admiral Porter, captured Arkansas Post, with 7000 prisoners and many cannon. On the 2nd February, General Grant arrived near Vicksburg. His object was to get his army below and behind this city, and the difficulties in the way were enormous, as the whole vicinity of the place “was a network of bayous, lakes, marshes, and old channels of streams.” For weeks the untiring Grant was baffled in his efforts to cut a channel or find a passage, so as to approach the city from the ridge in the rear. He was, as Washburne said, “terribly in earnest.” He had neither horse, nor servant, nor camp chest, nor for days even a blanket. He fared like the commonest soldier under his command, partaking the same rations, and sleeping on the ground under the stars. After many failures, the General, “with a persistence which has marked his whole career, conceived a plan without parallel in military history for its boldness and daring.” This was briefly to march his army to a point below Vicksburg, “then to run the bristling batteries of that rebel Gibraltar, exposed to its hundreds of heavy guns, with his transports, and then to cross the Mississippi below Vicksburg, and, returning, attack that city in the rear.” The crews of the very frail Mississippi steamboats, aware of the danger, with one exception, refused to go. But when Grant called for volunteers, there came from his army such numbers of pilots, engineers, firemen, and deck-hands, that he had to select by lot those who were to sail on this forlorn hope. And they pressed into the desperate undertaking with such earnestness, that great numbers offered all their money for a chance in this lottery of death, as much as 100 dollars in United States currency being offered and refused by those who had had the luck to get what seemed to be a certainty to lose their lives. And these men truly rode into the jaws of death, believing long beforehand that there was very little hope for any one to live. Into the night they sailed in dead silence, and then, abreast of the city, there came from the batteries such a blaze of fire and such a roar of artillery as had seldom been seen or heard in the war. The gunboats fired directly on the city; the transports went on at full speed, and the troops were landed. But this was only the first step in a tremendous drama. The battle at the taking of Fort Gibson was the next. Now Grant found himself in the enemy’s country, between two fortified cities, with two armies, greatly his superior in numbers, against him. Then followed battle after battle, and “rapid marches, brilliant with gallant charges and deeds of heroic valour, winning victories in quick succession—at Raymond on the 12th, at Jackson the capital of Mississippi on the 14th, at Baker’s Creek on the 16th, at Big Block River on the 17th, and finally closing with driving the enemy into Vicksburg, and completely investing the city.” The whole South was in terror, and Jefferson Davis sent messages far and wide, imploring every rebel to hasten to Vicksburg. It was all in vain. After desperately assaulting the city without success, Grant resolved on a regular siege. “Then, with tireless energy, with sleepless vigilance night and day, with battery and rifle, with trench and mine, the army made its approaches, until the enemy, worn out with fatigue, exhausted of food and ammunition, and driven to despair, finally laid down their arms,” Grant sternly refusing, as was his wont, any terms to the conquered. By this capture, with its accompanying engagements, the rebels lost 37,000 prisoners and 10,000 killed and wounded. The joy which this victory excited all through the Union was beyond description. President Lincoln wrote to General Grant a letter which was creditable to his heart. In it he frankly confessed that Grant had understood certain details better than himself. “I wish to make personal acknowledgment,” he said, “that you were right and I was wrong.”