“You shall have your boy, my dear Madam,” the President said simply, seating himself and writing a brief order to the Secretary of War.
The mother drew near his desk, softly crying. Through her tears she said:
“My heart is heavy, Mr. Lincoln, when I think of all the hard and bitter things we have heard of you.”
“Well, give my love to the people of South Carolina when you go home, and tell them that I am their President, and that I have never forgotten this fact in the darkest hours of this awful war; and I am going to do everything in my power to help them.” “You will never regret this generous act,” the mother cried with gratitude.
“I reckon not,” he answered. “I’ll tell you something, Madam, if you won’t tell anybody. It’s a secret of my administration. I’m only too glad of an excuse to save a life when I can. Every drop of blood shed in this war North and South has been as if it were wrung out of my heart. A strange fate decreed that the bloodiest war in human history should be fought under my direction. And I—to whom the sight of blood is a sickening horror—I have been compelled to look on in silent anguish because I could not stop it! Now that the Union is saved, not another drop of blood shall be spilled if I can prevent it.”
“May God bless you!” the mother cried, as she received from him the order.
She held his hand an instant as she took her leave, laughing and sobbing in her great joy.
“I must tell you, Mr. President,” she said, “how surprised and how pleased I am to find you are a Southern man.”
“Why, didn’t you know that my parents were Virginians, and that I was born in Kentucky?”
“Very few people in the South know it. I am ashamed to say I did not.”