My desk
How vividly I summon up the hundreds of exhausted soldiers in the streets of Washington.
I watched them from the White House, a stream of muddy, rain-soaked men, walking through a downpour, going nowhere. Men without guns, without knapsacks; some men covered with blankets. Some staggered. Some fell, lay on the street. Women brought coffee. There were Michigan men, New York men, Minnesota men—defeated, defeated at Bull Run. The broken regiments struggled all along Pennsylvania Avenue. Victims of panic—defeat. Not a drum sounded. All took place in rain-washed silence. Men without shoes, men leaning on one another.
I ordered the White House staff and military guard to provide coffee, food, blankets, shelter.
Hundreds passed...all day long.
For a long while after this there were conferences, men realizing that Washington could be attacked. A long time before the city was protected.
Defeat, I am told, is a particular kind of crucifixion. I know. I have thought—
October 24, ’64
I wish I could go bowling, swap yarns.