Nor should it be forgotten, in considering the obligation of the people and the Government to the soldiers, that there was a time, not many years ago, when everything in this country—its Government, its lands, its money—was absolutely at the mercy of the army. When, at the close of the late civil war, the men who had followed Grant, and Sherman, and Thomas, and Meade, marched in review down Pennsylvania avenue, in Washington, on their bayonets rested all control, all law, all public authority. They had only to say to Congress, “These States we have conquered are ours; divide their territory and give us patents for it,” and it would have been done. They had only to say to the President, Congress, and people: “We have each earned pensions of one hundred dollars a month—enact such a law,” and it would have been enacted. Or if they had declared, “Give every soldier’s widow or orphan one thousand dollars a year,” where was the power to say nay? The Government? It was their strong and steady columns. The Congress? They could have sent a Corporal with his guard and brushed it away as you would a fly from your hand. The Constitution? It was a mere faded parchment, as dry and useless as a last year’s bird’s nest, if these men in faded blue uniforms, marching with their tattered flags—these men who had looked death in the face on dozens of battle-fields—had so decreed. But they used their great power with the chivalry of heroes and the unselfishness of patriots. They demanded nothing of the country they had saved. Quietly and modestly they returned to the peaceful homes and walks they had left, and took up again the broken threads of their old life.
Thousands of these soldiers contracted, during their service, the seeds of diseases that were only developed years afterward. The surgeon of my own Regiment, an old and capable physician, once told me that every man in the army marching to Atlanta under Sherman, would sooner or later suffer from the effects of the exposures and hardships of that trying campaign.
And for unfortunates of this character, whose disabilities were developed long after the war, the Government provides no pensions. Death may result, but the widows and orphans of such soldiers can claim no bounty from the country. For the relief of these soldiers, their widows and orphans, private benevolence must be appealed to. And this is the purpose of your organization. It is an object that should enlist the sympathies of all, and I sincerely trust that the largest measure of success may reward your efforts, and that a fund, ample for the purposes indicated, may be provided.
A WAR-TIME PICTURE.
Speech, at a Grand Army Camp-Fire, held in Topeka, February 13, 1885.
Comrades of the Grand Army: The Chairman of your committee called on me, on Wednesday evening last, and asked me to occupy five or six minutes, this evening, in a talk to you. I could not well refuse, though it seemed to me I had nothing of interest to say. But after he had gone, and the task I had assumed began to press itself upon my attention, my mind drifted back to the war period, with its fierce strifes and passionate excitement, and vivid pictures of many scenes presented themselves, some in keeping with the time, others more akin to the present era of peaceful prosperity and development. Then I thought that others who were to address you to-night would talk of war, and I might entertain you, for a few moments at least, with a picture of peace and good-will in the midst of war.
As vividly as if it was an event of yesterday, there is photographed on my memory a scene presented in the early autumn of 1862. Buell’s army was moving from Louisville to the battle-field of Perryville, and early one evening our corps went into camp on a beautiful farm in one of the loveliest regions of Kentucky. A clear, sparkling brook wound through a charming valley, from the hills to the west, and blue-grass pastures climbed gentle slopes on either side of the stream. As a background, south, north and west, were heavy forests of noble trees, while eastward an extended landscape, embracing a range of finely cultivated farms, stretched far away.
The evening shadows fell slowly upon the camp; so slowly you could scarce tell when day ended and the night began. Supper was over, and the soldiers, lying at full length on the luxuriant grass, or sitting around in groups, were lazily resting or chatting, after the day’s long and dusty march. Thousands of smouldering camp-fires dotted the hillsides and valleys in every direction; the wide firmament, cloudless and peaceful, glittered with stars; and the air, mild and balmy, had in it that indefinable and delicate perfume which belongs alone to trodden pastures or to meadows freshly mown. All the noise and bustle of the day and evening gradually died away. The camp-guards paced their posts slowly and noiselessly; the hum of conversation was faint and low; the rude mirth of the soldiers was hushed; the jokes, and gibes, and laughter of the camp had faded into silence; and a peaceful calm, resembling that of a quiet Sabbath, had fallen like a benediction over all the scene. Save the stacks of burnished guns, from which the light of the camp-fires fitfully glinted, and the parked cannon, and the groups of uniformed men, the picture presented was as peaceful and calm as it had been before war swept into this pastoral paradise.
But suddenly, from the edge of the woods across the intervening valley, half a mile away, a band began playing “Home, Sweet Home,” and as the touching chords of that familiar melody flooded all the camp, the hush grew deeper, and I know, though the darkness concealed their emotion, that moisture welled up in all eyes, and tender thoughts of far-away scenes filled all hearts in that great host of bronzed and stalwart men. For when the music at last ceased a silence so deep that it was almost oppressive succeeded; and then a mighty cheer, echoing and resounding for miles away, went up from 20,000 throats. Those who have heard the Union army hurrah know what it could do in that line, when it put its heart into its lungs and throat.
When the cheer ended, another band, far down the valley, made the hillsides echo with the patriotic strains of the “Star-Spangled Banner,” and again followed the great shout of applause, like the mingling roar of many winds. Then from the hill-tops, far off to the west, was wafted the music, low and sweet, of “Annie Laurie,” and again the hush of an almost oppressive silence fell upon the camp. But no cheer followed its rendering. Into the hearts of the listening soldiers had stolen thoughts of Annies who were christened with all sorts of names. This Scottish lassie represented all womankind, and the notes of the song which celebrated her beauty and her virtues had touched hidden founts of emotion in thousands of men.