The dawn of the morning of the 11th was calm and peaceful, but to us every breeze seemed laden with sighs from some stricken heart. Little Minnie gathered a bouquet of flowers to send to “dear papa,” and every blossom was a wish that he might come home. At nine o’clock sister and I bade adieu to friends, and in Ionia village we were joined by Mrs. Peck, the sister of my brother’s wife, who was starting to Washington to care for her wounded husband. Off at two o’clock. Soon the enterprising little town of Ionia is lost in the distance. Familiar objects fade from our view, and all becomes new and strange—as this is my first ride over the Detroit and Milwaukee Railroad. The scenery is rather monotonous along the line of the road—the country most of the way being new—though every few miles we pass thriving little villages which have sprung up within a few years as if by magic, and which northern industry and enterprise will soon convert into fine cities, and those dismal swamps and marshes into beautiful meadow lands. At Detroit we take the steamer “May Queen,” bound for Cleveland. The evening is delightful. The stars one by one shine forth from the blue canopy above, and their gentle light is reflected from the blue expanse below; and while we gaze, the full-orbed moon emerges from the waters, and, “blending her silvery light with that of her sister stars,” adds new lustre to the scene.
At eight o’clock we leave the shores of Michigan, and are soon plowing our way through the blue waters of Lake Erie. How pleasantly and quickly would have passed the hours of that long night, were it not for the sad mission upon which we were going. The battle-field with its thousands of mangled forms, the dead and the dying, and all the horrors connected with such scenes of carnage, are spread out before us. These, with the conflicting hopes and fears, which alternately take possession of our hearts, banish “tired nature’s sweet restorer, balmy sleep.”
We land in Cleveland at 5 A. M., purchase tickets for Washington via Philadelphia. After four weary hours of waiting, we find ourselves comfortably seated in the cars, and are hurried on toward our destination. We arrive at Pittsburg at 2 P. M., where we change cars, and hasten away, leaving the dingy, smoke-wreathed city in the distance.
As we approach the Alleghanies, the scenery becomes picturesque and grand, often approaching the sublime. Those mountain ranges with their lofty peaks towering heavenward, those rocky cliffs and deep gorges, those long tunnels through which we pass, where in a moment midnight darkness succeeds to the brightness of noon, producing feelings—one might imagine—akin to a sudden exchange of worlds. While passing through these tunnels an almost breathless silence prevails—scarce a whisper is heard until we again emerge into the light. Next we describe a semi-circle around a sharp curve; then we pass through some deep cut; across valleys, where now and then we catch a glimpse of some little town with its long rows of white-washed buildings, nestled cosily at the foot of the mountains. New objects appear for a moment and are gone, until at length the day wears away, and night drops her sable curtain o’er the scene.
We pass Harrisburg in the night, so we have not even a glimpse of the capital of the old Keystone State. All is hushed and still; we have just composed ourselves for a little sleep, when suddenly there is a crashing and jarring which throws many from their seats; but in a few moments all is explained—the cars are off the track. The first thought is, that some villainous “Reb” had placed obstructions on the track, but the truth is soon known: an innocent horse is the cause of the accident, and “Johnny Reb” is for once wrongfully accused.
No one seriously hurt; only a few moments’ delay; the passengers are crowded into the few remaining cars, and we are soon on our way again, leaving the poor horse on both sides of the track. We arrive in Philadelphia at four A. M., where we wait for the eleven o’clock train to Baltimore. We saw but little of the city. Being very tired, and having our minds constantly occupied with anxious thoughts and fearful forebodings, we felt no desire for sight-seeing.
The seven long hours we have to wait at length wear away, and once more we find ourselves hurrying on toward the monumental city, where we arrive about three P. M. The bloody scene which transpired in the streets of this great and beautiful city, the 19th of April, 1861, came fresh to memory. It was here the loyal blood of Massachusetts’ patriot sons was first shed—not, however, by a manly foe, but by a furious, disgraceful mob, which mad riot incited to deeds of violence and blood. But, oh! what thousands since then have fallen, and still the sword is unsheathed! We would adopt the language of the Psalmist: “How long, O Lord, how long shall the wicked triumph?”
After a short delay, once more the shrill whistle is heard, and again we are moving on toward the nation’s capital, where we arrive in good time. The first object that attracts our attention is that magnificent building—the Capitol. But, as it is getting late, we engage a hack, and go directly to Columbian Hospital in search of Mr. Peck, having learned that he was there; but to the great disappointment of us all, and especially of his poor wife, we found that he had been sent only the day before to Point Lookout, and, it being impossible for her to procure transportation to that place, the hope of seeing him had to be abandoned. Oh, how trying, after travelling three weary days with a babe in her arms, to be just one day too late. Too late! How significant and full of meaning those little words! How many have been one day too late, and no hope of a re-union on earth! It now being too late to go to Alexandria—the boats having already stopped running—the fond hope of seeing the dear husband and brother that day had to be given up. Oh, how could we remain even for one night with only the Potomac between us and the dear object of our search! What if this should be his last night on earth? What if his released spirit should take its everlasting flight ere the dawn of another day? How could we say, “Thy will be done”? But there is no alternative. We must wait.
On our way to Columbian Hospital we passed thousands of our soldiers, some of them apparently having recently arrived—judging from their clean uniforms—while others had evidently seen hard service, looking worn and tired, and well-nigh discouraged. We concluded that they belonged to Pope’s grand army, which had so recently retreated from the disastrous battle-field of Bull Run. We wondered how such numbers could have been defeated. To us, having never before seen more than a single regiment at a time, it was a vast army. We began to realize that we had a mighty foe to contend with, and as we looked upon those war-scarred heroes—heroes, notwithstanding the retreat—we could not help repeating to ourselves: “Poor boys, how little you or we know what lies before us; there may be many battles to be fought, and, perhaps, some more inglorious retreats. Many of you will see home and friends no more; your final resting-place will be upon Southern soil.”
Early next morning we hastened to the Provost Marshal’s office to obtain passes for Alexandria. Arriving at the office, hope almost dies within us, for we see this notice: “No passes granted on Sunday.” What is to be done, now? Shall we retrace our steps, and wait another twenty-four hours in such terrible suspense? No, we resolved not to leave until an effort had been made, and the last argument exhausted in setting forth the justice of our claim. We entered the office, found it already filled with applicants, saw one after another as they applied and were refused. Tremblingly we crowd our way to the Marshal’s chair, and with the greatest respect, and more deference than is meet should be paid to mortals, request passes to Alexandria. He straightens himself up, and with the cold dignity of a prince, replies: “Don’t you know we don’t give passes on Sunday? Why do you ask us to violate orders?” Still acting as spokesman, I inquired: “Will no circumstances justify you in granting a pass to-day?” “Well, what are the circumstances,” said he, in the same stern manner. Our story was briefly told, after which, with some hesitation, and watching us closely to see whether we were deceiving him, he directed them to be made out. Oh, what a load was that moment lifted from our hearts! Those little strips of paper, how precious! With tears of gratitude we left the office, and immediately started for the boat landing, and were soon on the steamer “James Guy,” and off for Alexandria, eight miles down the river. How delightful, had we been on a pleasure excursion! Scenes and scenery so entirely new! The forts along the river, with those iron-throated monsters looking defiantly upon us, almost causing one to shrink back with terror, were a great curiosity. The beautiful residence of Gen. Robert E. Lee, now his no longer—having been forfeited by treason—on Arlington heights, half hidden amid stately forest trees and luxuriant evergreens, was pointed out to us; also the Washington Navy Yard, the Arsenal and the Insane Asylum. But what attracts our attention more than all else, are the multitudes of soldiers with their snowy tents skirting the banks on either side of the river, and extending back as far as the eye can reach, covering every hill-side and every valley, which, with the desolate appearance of the country, remind us that we are in the presence of WAR.