The dinner cooked and eaten, the march begins again, with the same routine of shouting and laughter, or silence and meditation. It is business, all of it—simply moving along, hour after hour, and mile after mile, until the sun drops low in the west, or perhaps for hours after the night has gathered and darkness has fallen upon the earth. Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, and occasionally thirty miles—these were the distances frequently covered by these long blue columns, each man carrying his house on his back, like a snail, and in addition, his gun, forty rounds of ammunition, three days’ rations, his cooking utensils, and his bed.
Sometimes these marches were made in pleasant weather, when the air was full of the perfume of flowers and melodious with the songs of birds. Sometimes they were made when the skies were leaden, and the clouds hung low; when rain poured down, hour after hour, and the roads became quagmires, and the men were soaked and chilled to the bone. Sometimes they were made in midwinter, when the ground was frozen, and the north wind cut like a knife, and at every step the road was stained with the blood of bruised and broken feet. Sometimes the route lay along pleasant lanes, or dim old country roads, or through quiet and shadowy woods, rich with odors of fir and pine; sometimes it followed, for days, the hard, white pikes, over which the dust hung like a cloud, thick, heavy, stifling. But no matter what the weather or the roads might be—whether the rain poured down in torrents, or the sun beat upon the column like a fiery furnace, or the cold of winter chilled and froze—the regiments formed and marched whenever orders came.
The long lines dwindled steadily and fatefully. Regiments that had once mustered a thousand men, were reduced to two or three hundred; companies that had answered to roll-call an hundred strong were mere squads of ten or fifteen. But as their long columns shrank, and each soldier’s place in the line drew nearer and nearer to the faded and tattered flag in the center, it seemed to grow dearer and more precious to their hearts. They followed it, upheld it, loved it, with an earnestness and devotion without parallel. Following it, hardships and privations were welcomed; upholding it, dangers and sufferings were laughed at; and to protect it the humblest and roughest of them all would have cheerfully and proudly given his own life. I have heard men, of late years, deny the existence of such a thing as disinterested patriotism. But the soldiers of the Union exemplified this splendid sentiment during every moment of their lives. No difficulty could dampen their ardor, no repulse could shake their confidence in final victory, no toil or suffering could perplex their faithful loyalty. The flag represented the Republic; to serve it was a soldier’s duty; to die for it was a soldier’s fate.
The months rolled on and lengthened into years, and still these men marched, and fought, and suffered, and died. And at last came Victory, and Peace, and Home. Their toils and privations, their trials and dangers, were over at last. They had filled the world with the splendor of their achievements. They had exalted and glorified the American name. They had preserved, for all the generations of men, the priceless heritage of free government. They had lifted the old flag into the very heavens, its blue field glistening with every star that had ever sparkled there, its crimson stripes bathed in the red blood of five hundred thousand patriot heroes, and its pure white folds as stainless as the shining souls of those who had died to save it. They had broken the shackles of four million slaves. They had enriched history with such a record of great deeds as never before illuminated its pages. And then, quietly and modestly, they went back to their homes—
——“Satisfied to pass
Calmly, serenely from the whole world’s gaze,
And cheerfully accept, without regret,
Their old life as it was.
“They who were brave to act,
And rich enough their action to forget—