Some of these were mere structures of boards; others large field tents; others, again, had board tops and tent sides. I walked at will among the rows of cots, and there saw suffering in its acutest forms. Soften the heart? Aye, the quest of gold upon which I first set out from my Canadian home was forgotten for the time in the presence of this suffering. Young fellows many of them were lying there by the hundreds, so pallid and wan, and scarcely lifting eyes to look at the passer-by. Even after this lapse of time, I vividly remember thinking of the mothers of these young lads in far-off homes in the north, waiting so hopefully and wistfully for their sons’ return.
In addition to the wounded in battle, many of the poor fellows were suffering from fevers. But to me it was all suffering. And this at last was war! Such scenes as these, harrowing though they are, mark the great distinction between the savage and the civilized. Civilized, we care for our wounded and sick; savage, the infirm and helpless are left to die. Board shanties, and with board roofs, mean as they were architecturally:
“I know they were holy things
That from a roof so sacred shine,
Where sounds the beat of angels’ wings,
And footsteps echo all divine.
Their mysteries I never sought,
Nor hearken to what science tells;
For, oh, in childhood I was taught
That God amid them dwells.”
Naturally, serviceable material for army recruits was looked after most keenly in Washington at this time. Walking along the new asphalt sidewalk, in heat so great as to melt the asphalt so that it left the print of my footsteps upon it, an officer wanted to know if I would like to enlist. His first offer was $800 in money down, and I have no doubt the offer would have gone up to $1,600 quite if I had been so disposed, but my quest was gold and not military glory, and consequently I declined the offer.
I made, too, a visit to Lincoln, at the White House, during the last days of June, 1864. No one for a moment questioned my right to enter. A challenge I did not hear. Within the doors of the White House, at the foot of the main stair, sat an attendant upon a plebeian three-legged stool reading a novel. Not a soldier nor a policeman in sight, and I was free, apparently, to go where I chose.
“In which room is the President?” I asked of the novel-reading attendant.
“First room upstairs to the right.”
I went up, and saw the great man in the room indicated. Feeling that I had no kind of right to intrude upon a man so weighted down with cares as President Lincoln was at that period of the war, I remained long enough to allow his image, as he sat facing me, to be imprinted on my memory, never to be obliterated. My first thought was, “What a tall, awkward man and how badly his clothes fit.” One arm lay upon the table beside which he sat, and the other upon the arm of his chair.