"War and Carnage, side by side, with gory banners flying, marched from one end of the nation to the other, until their footsteps rested on the graves of eight hundred thousand men. God's precious word was disregarded, and His blessed soil dyed red with human blood—the rich, fat blood of the noblest race that ever trod His earth—the blood of your brother, and of mine, O my countrymen!
"And now, the loud-lunged trumpets brayed their fierce alarums, and summoned Columbia's sons to deeds at which our grandsons shall turn pale—deeds of heroic daring such as Greece, nor Rome, nor Carthage ever dreamed of, nor storied page has chronicled: summoned them to Sumter's stony ramparts, and Potomac's grassy banks—summoned them to do, and—die. Eight hundred thousand Men! And they went—going as tornadoes go—to strike for a Nation's life—to strike the foul usurper low, and fling his carcass to the dogs. They would have struck—struck hard and home; but they were stayed. That was not the 'little game' of Generals and Statesmen, and of high contract-ing parties. Oh, no! Victory would never do! 'Let us fight the foe with gloves on!' said the Minister. They fought. The foe wore gloves, also; but the palms were brass, the fingers iron, and the knuckles polished steel! But the Minister had his whim, and unborn generations will feel its consequences! Eight hundred thousand graves!
"And the Union legions went, from decreed Fate toward a consummated Destiny, in spite of Ministers, their minions, or the 'little game;' and Tom Clark went, too.
"And loud the trumpets brayed; and the heavy drums did sound; and they woke strange and fearful energies in the slumbering Nation's heart. What a magic transmutation! Plowmen transformed to heroes, such as shall forever put Cincinnatus in the shade; day laborers, carriers of the hod, claiming—and rightfully, too—high places in the Pantheon of heroic demi-gods. Look at Fredericksburg! Forget not the Black Brigade! Bear in mind the deeds of a hundred regiments on a hundred fields—fields, too, that might, and would have finally decided the carnage and the quarrel, but for the Minister, his gloves, his 'little game,' his great whim—and lo! its consequences!
"Tom Clark, quickened into life by the subtle, flame-tipped staff in the hands of the phantom-artiste—the proprietress of the wonderful atelier and Man-factory, now stepped forth through the door of the room, and forthwith the scene expanded to such vast dimensions, that Betsey found it impossible to realize the magic mimicry, for the whole thing was too real, and on too grand a scale. She stood on the hill of the world, surveying its valleys at leisure. Tom Clark, apparently heard—deeply heard, his Country's wail of agony—for unchecked Treason was then griping her tightly by the throat. That cry called him to a field of glory, such as God's green earth never before afforded, nor His sun ever saw; nor His moon; nor His myriad, twinkling, starry eyes!
"Clark's soul was in arms, as his offended ears drank in the hoarse, deep thunders of Treason's cannonry, pouring iron hail upon a prostrate Nation's head; and his eyes beheld the flashing of the guns, as they vomited a hell of iron and fire upon Sumter, upon Anderson, and the peerless Eighty-three! Tom Clark saw the storm, and his heart indignant swelled, at the insult to the Star-gemmed Flag of Human Rights and Liberty—an insult, long since wiped out in traitor's blood, but for the Minister, and the gloves, and the 'little game,' and the whim, whose consequences are—eight hundred thousand skeletons!
"Like a true man, Clark, inspired by a true woman—the phantom-wife, and artiste—ran, leapt, flew to arms and deathless glory. Ah, God! to arms, and fadeless glory! He had no time to grieve, or grumble; or to criticise this general, or that battle. He looked over the heads of cowards and traitors in his own camp, at the noble men in arms, and who bravely fought, and nobly died, for the Country. He saw, and gloriously emulated such men as Lyon, Saxton, Hunter, Fremont—and Baker! Baker!—O Oregon! my tears fall with thine, for him! He was mine, yours—ours! Ours, in his life; in his nobleness; in his soul-arousing eloquence; in the valor, and the effulgent glory of his death—the result of another whim, and lo! the consequences!
"And now, see! Behold the smoke of yonder battle! Death rides on cannon-balls, to-day! And, to-night, there will be much mourning in the land; for strong men in thousands are giving up the ghost. Weep not, O widow, for God accepts such sacrifices; mourn not, O orphans, He who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, will hold thee in His keeping; thy grateful country will not let thee want for bread; and, by-and-by, it will be a proud boast of thine, 'My father died to redeem the land from treason!'
"Death rides on cannon-balls, to-day, in the fight that we are seeing. Tom Clark is a hero. See! he leads the van. God spare him! What a presence! What blows he deals for Liberty and the Union! Lo! the thundering battalions of the brave and bold, but insane, misguided, and revengeful foe, sweep down the embattled plain, their war-cry ringing out above the belching roar of artillery; and, with such might and valor do they charge, that Freedom's cohorts reel and stagger beneath the dreadful shock of arms. Another such a charge, and all is lost. But, see, there comes a man from the ranks—a common soldier—his voice rings clearly out upon the sulphur-laden air: 'Follow me!' The inspiring words and action kindle new fire in the wavering breasts of hundreds. They rise; they throw themselves upon the foe—they hush his battle-cry in death. He is repulsed! 'Who did that?' demands an aide-de-camp. 'Private Thomas W.,' is the response. 'Hero! greet him in my name, as Color Sergeant,' says the General; and Tom Clark is promoted on the field.