The story of a border city during the Civil War

by Galusha Anderson

Moreover, many a pastor, out of tender regard for the members of his church and congregation, for some months at the beginning of the Civil War refused to discuss in his pulpit the question of the hour. Unless, in his judgment, the public good imperatively demanded it, he felt unwilling to wound the feelings of Christian friends and split his church into hostile parties by openly proclaiming his patriotic convictions. Nor should we fail to note that most of the preachers of the city rightly felt that their work primarily was distinctively spiritual, rather than political; that however sacred might be their duty to their country, there were duties still higher and still more sacred. They were also persuaded that they should, so far as in them lay, calm the public mind rather than agitate it; should strengthen reason and cool passion; promote love and discourage hatred and revenge. Accordingly, such men as Eliot of the Unitarians, Post of the Congregationalists, Nelson of the Presbyterians, Schuyler of the Episcopalians, the staunchest of Union men, and each of them a tower of strength in the city, seeking to do the largest possible good in a community divided and torn by antagonistic political doctrines, for a season refrained from giving public utterance to their Union sentiments. When, however, they did speak, they boldly discussed with great ability and thoroughness the duties which citizens owe to the State.

During the winter of 1860–61 there was but one clergyman in the city, who publicly spoke upon the great national issue, and he was a pronounced and prominent secessionist, or, which was the same thing under a different label, a conditional Unionist. And strange to say, this good Presbyterian brother regarded the introduction of politics into the pulpit with holy horror; at all events he thought that his brethren in the ministry should refrain from discussing in the house of God disturbing political problems; nevertheless, he, in an elaborate discourse, on the Lord’s Day, set forth in his pulpit, “The Ultimatum of the South.” But our ministerial brother apparently failed to see that “wherein he judged another he condemned himself.” He not only preached a political sermon, but published it in pamphlet form, and did what he could to scatter copies of it all over the State. So he was not after all really opposed to preaching politics, but to preaching politics that antagonized his own cherished political views. Not his own, but his opponent’s politics degraded the pulpit.

Since, however, it is my purpose to present in these pages not only my observations of others, but also my own experiences, I trust that it will not be regarded as egotistical and indelicate on my part, if I carefully portray some scenes in which I was called to be an actor. From 1858 to 1866 I was pastor of the Second Baptist Church of St. Louis and preached at the corner of Sixth and Locust Streets, in a plain, steepleless, brick meetinghouse, painted lead color. The membership of the church was five or six hundred, and for three years of my pastorate, the men outnumbered the women. The church contained an unusual number of able, aggressive young men. In the congregation the rich and the poor sat side by side. All walks and pursuits of life were there represented. In the pews were a goodly number of lawyers, some of them among the ablest advocates and counsellors in the State. One of them, James O. Broadhead, not a Baptist, a member of the Union Safety Committee, was a man of conspicuous ability. He was a native of Virginia, liberal-minded, conservative, clear-headed. He was an ardent patriot without fanaticism. While instinctively shrinking from all extreme positions on the vexed political questions of the hour, he was unswervingly loyal to the Union. In those dark tempestuous days, he stood like a granite rock amid the swirling waves of passion.

Moreover, in the congregation, and also in the membership of the church, was William M. McPherson. He came from the poor whites of Kentucky. What he was he owed largely to a godly mother. Amid great disadvantages he secured the rudiments of an English education. He then studied law at night, in his humble Kentucky home, by the light of flaming pine knots. He also taught a country school to put an honest penny into his empty purse. While yet in the beginning of his professional career as a lawyer, he came to St. Louis. He there at one time filled the office of United States attorney. Out of tender remembrance of his mother, and a sacred promise that he made her, he regularly attended church. He became a Christian. During my pastorate, out of choice he was an usher in the middle aisle, and none that received his attentions could ever forget the gracious kindliness of his manner. But back of his marked benevolence of spirit lay immense power of will. When he laid his hand to a work within or without the church, if human energy could accomplish it, it was quickly done. He was passionately devoted both to his city and his country. In the darkest days of the war, he was as true to the Old Flag as the needle to the pole. To preach to him and others of like spirit was an inspiration.

In my church were seven deacons, all of them loyal to the Federal government. Of some of them we shall have occasion to speak in another connection. But one of them, Daniel J. Hancock, a Gibraltar of strength to his pastor, I refer to here, on account of an interesting incident in connection with the public mention of his name. General Hancock, who in the Civil War acquired a world-wide military fame, spent the winter of 1860–61 in St. Louis. His father, who was a deacon of a Baptist church in Pennsylvania, paid him a visit. One Sunday morning they both worshipped with us. Before the sermon a collection was to be taken for some special object. I said, “Will Deacon Pratt and Deacon Hancock pass the contribution boxes?” General Hancock’s father, not knowing that there was a Deacon Hancock in my church, was on his feet in a moment, ready to do the duty asked. The general, pulling his father’s coattail, said to him in a whisper, “There is a Deacon Hancock in this church.” Was not the general’s readiness for any duty on the battlefield in large measure an inheritance?

As the winter wore away, and in turn spring and summer came, military officers in constantly increasing numbers appeared in the congregation. I very distinctly remember General Sumner. Every Sunday night for two or three months, he sat to my right near the pulpit. Being slightly deaf, he got as near as he could to the speaker. He was tall and graceful in form and movement, a man who would attract attention even in a crowd. He was afterwards conspicuous in the great battles of Fair Oaks, Antietam and Fredericksburg.

What I have now said may suggest with some distinctness the circumstances under which I performed my pulpit ministrations. But I was full of unrest because I had not spoken concerning the duties that we all sacredly owed to our country. I felt that sooner or later every man, who had any influence whatsoever, regardless of his surroundings, must speak out boldly on the great national issue. This conviction was re-enforced by two distasteful incidents thrust upon my attention. The first was this. At the Sunday morning service I usually prayed for the President and his advisers. So long as Mr. Buchanan was in office this appeared to be agreeable to all; but no sooner was Mr. Lincoln inaugurated than some began to object to this part of my prayer. In private conversation they gave free expression to their resentment. The congregation was divided on the question. Among themselves they warmly debated it. No one as yet had uttered his protest to me. But I had heard of the strenuous objection urged against my petition for our Chief Magistrate. Believing, however, that I was discharging a sacred duty, a duty positively enjoined in Scripture, I kept right on praying publicly for the President. There was as yet no sign of yielding on either side. Relations were already strained, if not wrenched. Something must be done, so, at least, thought the opposition forces. They got together and requested William M. McPherson, on their behalf, to talk the matter over with me. While he had no sympathy with their opposition, in order that he might do something in the interest of harmony in the church, he consented to lay their grievance before me. He invited me to meet him at his business office, that our interview might be strictly private. Since I had no truer friend, I gladly responded to his courteous request. When we met he at once said: “A considerable number of the church and congregation have sent to you through me an earnest petition that in the future you should forego praying publicly for the President. And they have asked me to induce you, if I can, to grant their desire.” I replied: “Such prayer is no new thing in my pulpit ministrations. I prayed for Mr. Buchanan and no one objected to that; and I do not see why any one should now object to my praying for Mr. Lincoln.” “Ah!” he answered, “that is just the sore point; they think that praying for Lincoln is partisan, that it is praying against the South; and can’t you for the sake of peace forego it?” I responded, “If Lincoln is as bad as they say he is, I am sure that both I and they ought to pray for him; he needs our prayers. Moreover, be so kind as to say to your brethren and mine, that according to the Protestant idea, prayer is indited by the Holy Spirit; and if the Holy Spirit leads me to pray publicly for the President, I must do it even though it may be disagreeable to my fellow men.”

My reply seemed to please him, and he said: “Shall I say that that is your message to them?” “Certainly,” said I, and our interview thus ended very pleasantly; but as I went towards my home, I became more positively convinced than ever, that all true men holding positions of trust in the city would soon be compelled to speak out with no uncertain accent on the question that was threatening to disrupt the Union. When the pews in opposition to good government go so far as to attempt to dictate the prayers of the pulpit and to repress all petitions for the President, the pulpit must either become subject to the pews, or squarely assert and defend its independence.

The second incident, constantly rankling like a thorn in my side, was the secession flag, already mentioned in a previous chapter. It fluttered over Sixth Street, about half a square from my church. Going to and fro in the discharge of my duties, I was compelled to pass beneath it. With many others, I wondered why the military authorities did not take it down by force. I did not then know, what all learned later, that just at that time they were in pursuit of larger game; that they were planning to strike at the centre of secession in our city, and so for the moment were wisely ignoring its incidental manifestations. But I had reached the limit of my patience, and could no longer mutely endure the flaunting of disloyalty. A fire was fiercely burning within my bones. I felt that it must have vent, or I should be consumed.

It was nineteen days before the taking of Camp Jackson. Sunday, April 21st, dawned. It was a warm bright day. My morning audience was large and attentive, but I was far from being happy. Back of the morning message there was another flaming in my soul for expression. No one yet knew what I contemplated doing in the evening. In the afternoon I met on the street one of my good deacons and made known to him my intention. Although a pronounced Unionist, for the sake of peace in the church and congregation he tried to turn me from my purpose; but when he found that my mind was fully made up, he said, “Well, if you must preach on secession, give them a 12–inch columbiad.” He had evidently overestimated the size of my gun, but such as I had, it was my fixed purpose to fire.