One day when I was at the White House in conversation with Lincoln a man bustled in self-importantly and whispered something to him. As the man left the room Lincoln turned to me and smiled.
“He tells me that twelve thousand of Lee’s soldiers have just been captured,” Lincoln said. “But that doesn’t mean anything; he’s the biggest liar in Washington. You can’t believe a word he says. He reminds me of an old fisherman I used to know who got such a reputation for stretching the truth that he bought a pair of scales and insisted on weighing every fish in the presence of witnesses.
“One day a baby was born next door, and the doctor borrowed the fisherman’s scales to weigh the baby. It weighed forty-seven pounds.”
Lincoln threw back his head and laughed; so did I. It was a good story. Now what do you think of this? Only recently I picked up a newspaper and read that same Lincoln anecdote, and it was headed, “A New Story.”
It was in connection with a death sentence that I first went to call upon President Lincoln. This was in December, 1864. I was a captain then in a Massachusetts regiment brigaded with other regiments for the work of the North Carolina coast defense, under command of Gen. Benjamin F. Butler. A young soldier and boyhood playmate of mine from Vermont had been sentenced by court martial to be shot for sending communications to the enemy. What had actually happened was this. The fighting at that time in our part of the country was desultory—a matter of skirmishes only. As must inevitably happen, even between hostile bodies of men speaking the same language, a certain amount of “fraternizing” (although that word was not used then) went on between the outposts and pickets of the opposing forces. In some cases the pickets faced one another on opposite sides of a narrow stream. Often this would continue for days or weeks, the same men on the same posts, and something very like friendship—the friendship of respectful enemies—would spring up between individuals in the two camps. They would sometimes go so far as to exchange little delicacies, tobacco and the like, across the line, No Man’s Land, as it was called in the last war. In some places the practice actually sprang up of whittling little toy boats and sailing them across a stream, carrying a tiny freight. This act was usually reciprocated to the best of his pitiful ability by Johnny Reb on the opposite bank.
The custom served to while away the tedious hours of picket duty, and it is doubtful if any of these young fellows thought of their acts as constituting a serious military offense. But such in fact it was; and when my young friend was caught red-handed in the act of sending a Northern newspaper into the Rebel lines he was straightway brought to trial on the terrible charge of corresponding with the enemy. He was found guilty and sentenced to be shot.
When the time for the execution of this sentence had nearly arrived I determined, as a last resort, to go and lay the case before the President in person, for it was evident, from the way matters had gone, that no mercy could be hoped for from any lesser tribunal. Fortunately, I was able to secure a few days’ leave of absence. I made the trip up to Hampton Roads by way of the old Dismal Swamp Canal. Hampton Roads was by this time under undisputed control of the Union forces, naval and military, and Fortress Monroe was, in fact, General Butler’s headquarters.
From this point it was a simple, if somewhat tedious, matter to get to Washington. But for one young officer the trip went all too quickly. The nearer loomed the nation’s capital and the culmination of his momentous errand the more he became amazed at his own temerity, and it required the constant thought of a gray-haired mother, soon to be broken hearted by sorrow and disgrace, to hold him steadfast to his purpose.
I had seen Lincoln only once in my life, and that was merely as one of the audience in Cooper Union, in New York, when he delivered his great speech on abolition. That had taken place on February 17, 1860, nearly five years before—long enough to make many changes in men and nations—yet the thought of that tall, awkward orator with his total lack of sophistication and his great wealth of human sympathy did much to hearten me for the coming interview. Unconsciously, as the miles jolted past in my journey to Washington, my mind slipped back over those five tremendous years and I seemed to live again the events, half pitiful, but wholly amazing, of that great meeting in the great auditorium of old Cooper Union.
At that time I was a school-teacher from the Hampshire highlands of the Berkshire Hills, and a neighbor of William Cullen Bryant. Through his kindness, my brother, who was also a teacher, and myself received an invitation to hear this speech by a then little-known lawyer from the West. We were told at the hotel that the Cooper Union lectures were usually discussions on matters of practical education, and we therefore used our tickets of admission more out of deference to Mr. Bryant for his kindness than from any interest in the debate.