There was much excitement in Washington during a portion of May, on account of the impeachment and trial of President Johnson. At length, on the 16th of the month, the news spread that he was acquitted of the high charges made against him by the House of Representatives, and that his power was left uncurtailed. But he had turned his back upon our brave soldiers, who bled and died to save the nation's life, and made no serious effort to put an end to the Kuklux outrages in the Southern States. For this reason many demanded that he be removed from his office. With them his acquittal foreboded ill; but we hoped for the best.
Uncle Dodson, aged sixty-five years, a plantation preacher and a resident of Campbell Camp, caused great excitement when he found his long-lost wife and she found her long-lost husband. Twenty years before the husband and wife were torn apart by the unrelenting slave-master. Weeping and begging to be sold together, while kneeling at the master's feet, they were only answered by a kick and the lash. Now they met again. In the front yard the wife came running to him crying out, "O Ben Dodson, is dis you? I am your own Betty." And she clasped him closely. "Glory! glory! hallalujah! Dis is my Betty, shuah," he said, pushing her away to look at her face. "I foun' you at las'. I's hunted an' hunted till I track you up here. I's boun' to hunt till I fin' you if you's alive." And they both wept tears of joy. "Ah, Betty, we cried harder'n dis when da sole us apart down dar in Egyp'." And another, outburst of joy followed. They were soon happily living together in their own little cabin.
The old man had some queer Scripture quotations. One he recited in meeting twice before I had an opportunity of correcting him, and that was, "Adam called his wife's name Eve because she was the mother of all evil." As Uncle Dodson often wished me to read a chapter in their chapel meetings "an 'splain it to us," I took occasion to read the third chapter of Genesis, and when I read,
"Because she was the mother of all living," he called out "ebil, ebil, sistah Hab'lin." Uncle Dodson was learning to read, and could read easy words in the first reader. I placed the Bible before him and pointed to the word "living." "Dat is so in dis place," he acknowledged, "but it's some place in de Bible." "Father Dodson," I said, "I have read every word in this Bible a number of times, and there is no such sentence between the two lids that Adam called his wife's name Eve because she was the mother of all evil," and a smile ran through the entire congregation. I added that it was not a wonder that these poor people should misquote Scripture, as a few years ago many of them were not allowed to learn to read. At this three of that company testified to being punished severely for learning their letters of a little white boy. I told them it was a greater wonder that they had passed through such privations and retained as much intelligence as they possessed. "O yes, well do I 'member when I was punish' too," said another, "for tryin' to learn to read." Turning to a young exhorter sitting by him, Uncle Dodson said, "Brodder Davis, I've labored in de Gospel mor'n forty years wid de white ministers and wid de black ministers, an' I neber foun' one so deep in de Scriptur' as sistah Hablin." We continued our exercises with good satisfaction.
Another of Father Dodson's comforting passages was, "Blessed is the corpse that the rain falls on." If the departed one had left no other evidence of being, prepared for the great change, then a rain on the day of the funeral was sufficient. I found this was quite generally accepted as a sure evidence with many of them.
As I was passing through the hospital yard a number of the convalescents were in a group discussing the subject of charity, thinking that some one had been too harshly judged. Said one man, "Paul said faith, hope, and charity. An' de greates' of 'em all was char'ty. An' I knows what a bigger man nor Paul said, better man too."
"An' who dat, an' what he say?" rejoined another. "He say, 'Judge not an' ye shan't be judged.'" "An' who said dat?" "'T was George Washington."
On inquiry I found his parents lived many years in the vicinity of Mount Vernon, and probably the colored people heard George Washington repeat that text, and it was handed down among them as an original saying of the Father of his Country, in their minds a greater and better man than Paul.
While engaged in my work, as the weather became very warm, I often rested an hour or two in the capitol to listen to the many witnesses who testified to the awful condition of our soldiers at Andersonville Prison, under Henry Wirtz. At the statement made concerning his stabbing and shooting the soldiers for leaning against the "dead line," the guilty man, Wirtz, shook as he arose from the sofa upon which he was reclining, and swore "that was a lie;" but General Auger, the president of the court, told him that he had nothing to say, and bade him sit down, which he did with cursing in great excitement. I some-times spent two or three hours in listening to the tale of the heartless cruelties that unprincipled wretch had committed. One woman, whose son died in that prison, was listening one afternoon. She stood in the corridor, and as he passed with his guards for the ambulance, which was to bear him back to the prison, she followed with her best weapon, a large umbrella. This she nimbly used, thrusting the pointed end into his side or back, or wherever she could hit him, saying, "You rascal, you villain, you murderer, you murdered my son in Andersonville." Her thrusts were in such quick succession that he begged the guards to protect him; but they did not interfere with the bereaved woman until they got the prisoner into the ambulance.
While I did not feel like following her example because of his murdering my cousin, yet I told General Auger that it was well for Henry Wirtz that his case was not tried by mothers and sisters of the thousands who had suffered and died under his cruelties. Said the general, "I do not know but it would be the best thing for him if mothers and sisters were his judges." But if they were the ones to give the decision, justice and mercy would never kiss each other over him. I never was an advocate of capital punishment, but I must acknowledge I did feel at times, while listening to Henry Wirtz's trial, that I would like to see that tiger in human form take a hemp swing. But when at last he received his sentence and swore he "always thought the American Eagle was a d—- buzzard," I had no desire to mingle with the multitude to witness the execution, though he well deserved the execration of all.