“What, furl the ensign of the nation I fought for? Not much! You bet your life, I’ll carry this flag and I’ll kill the first man who tries to wrest it from me. I’ll shed my blood to keep it there.”
And the flag was kept there.
Arriving at the depot, the various organizations boarded the trains in waiting, and shortly after one o’clock all were under way to Waldheim Cemetery, situated some nine miles west of Chicago. It was a gloomy, cold day, but nevertheless an immense concourse of people followed the remains to the vault in which they were temporarily deposited. Those who had immediate charge of the funeral arrangements were Frank A. Stauber, H. Linnemeyer, George Schilling, R. M. Burke, Julius Leon, Edwin Goettge, Charles F. Seib, Ernst Litzman, H. Ulharn, F. G. Bielefeld, William Urban, Dr. Ernst Schmidt and T. J. Morgan, all members of the Defense Committee and the Amnesty Association.
After the coffins had been placed in the vault, Capt. W. P. Black took a position near the entrance and delivered the funeral oration. In concluding his address, he said, speaking of a day “when righteousness should reign”:
“We look forward to that day. We hope for it. We wait for it, and with such a hope in our hearts can we not bring the judgment of charity to bear upon any mistakes of policy or action that may have been made by any of those who, acknowledging the sublime and glorious hope in their hearts, rushed forward to meet it? We are not here this afternoon to weep. We are not here to mourn over our dead. We are here to pay by our presence and our words the tribute of our appreciation and the witness of our love. I loved these men. I knew them not until I came to know them in the time of their sore travail and anguish. As months went by and I found in the lives of those with whom I talked the witness of their love for the people, of their patience, gentleness and courage, my heart was taken captive in their cause. For this I have no apology. If any of you feel that the tears are coming listen to the last words spoken by one of these, our dead.
“‘Go not to my grave with your mourning, with your lamentations and tears, with your forebodings and fears. When my lips are dumb, do not thus come. Bring no long train of carriages; no hearse with waving plumes, with the gaunt glory of death illumed; but with hands on my heart let me rest. Ye who are left on this desolate shore, there still to suffer alone, deeply do I pity you. For me no more are the hardships, the bitterness, heartache and strife, the sadness and sorrow of life, but the glory of the divine, that is mine. Poor creatures, afraid of the darkness, who groan at the sight of the anguish in our silent night, go to my tomb. Peal no solemn bell—I am well.’
“It has been said that these men knew no religion. I repel the charge. I know but one religion—the religion which seeks to manifest itself by its service of God—or of the supreme good—by its service of humanity in its anguish and its hours of despair. And one of these, our dead, while within the very gloom of approaching death, gave in these words: ‘My religion is this: To live right. To do right is to live right, and the service of humanity is my worship of God.’
“I remember that back in the centuries it was written in words that shall never perish: ‘He that doeth righteousness is righteous, even as He is righteous.’ There is no conception possible to humanity of that which we call God other than the conception which sets our life aflame in the service of our fellow-men. But I must not keep you. There is no necessity for multiplying words in such a presence as this. There are times when silence is more terrible than speech; when men moving to the supreme issue of life can say, standing with their feet on earth and their hands reaching out into the unknown, in a sublime burst of enthusiasm: ‘This is the happiest moment of my life’ (the last words of Fischer), and then in that hour can cheer for the cause to which they have given their lives (as Engel did), and men in that hour, forgetting themselves, can speak of the voice of the people (Parsons’ last words) until utterance is silenced forever, what need is there to stand by such men and multiply words?
“I say that a mistake may well be forgotten in the glory of the purpose which we condemn—it may be through undue haste. I say that whatever of fault may have been in them, these, the people whom they loved and in whose cause they died, may well close the volume and seal up the record and give our lips to the praise of their heroic deeds and their sublime self-sacrifice.”