One of the last letters he ever wrote was as follows:
"No. 75 West Seventy-first Street, N. Y.
Thursday February 5, 1891.E. J. Atkinson, Esq., Secretary Memorial Committee, G.A.R.
"Dear Sir:—Your communication inviting me to share in your memorial services of Decoration Day, May 30, 1891, is received. I hereby accept and have marked my engagement book accordingly, so that I may not fall into the error of two years ago, which actually compromised me.
"The only probable interference is in the unveiling of General Grant's equestrian statue in Lincoln Park, Chicago, on a day not yet determined, when I must attend as President of the Society of the Army of the Tennessee. This unveiling was to have occurred in October, 1890, was postponed to this spring by reason of a failure in the casting, and I believe it will not be ready till this autumn. Therefore I beg you to remind me early in May, 1891, of this, my promise.
Sincerely yours,
W. T. Sherman."
When General Beauregard wrote a letter accusing him of cruel practices, in requiring prisoners of war to dig up torpedoes which the Rebel army had planted, Sherman made no reply; but some time later he said to a friend:
"I did not take any notice of Beauregard's letter. He is a very clever gentleman, and I like him personally; but he is wrong in his ideas of civilized warfare. It was no new thing to require prisoners to remove torpedoes which had been buried by the enemy. Wellington did it in Spain, and history furnishes a number of similar instances. I was justified not only by the rules of war but also by the best of humane principles. In the first instance where I had prisoners to perform such service, we were near a little town about forty miles from Savannah. The name of the place escapes me just now. News was brought to me that a gallant young officer had been frightfully wounded and his horse killed by the explosion of a torpedo buried by the rebels in the middle of the road. I filed my army to the right and flanked that part of the road where the explosives were supposed to be planted. The wagon trains had to pass over the dangerous ground, however, and I knew that the tramping of the mules and the heavy weight of the loaded wagons would surely explode any torpedoes which had been planted. I ordered a detail of prisoners to be sent ahead of the train, and with picks and shovels to dig up all explosives that could be found. It was not to protect my soldiers that I did this, but to save my train. My army had already obviated the danger by a right flank, and was safely out of harm's way. Prisoners should be protected, but mercy is not a legitimate attribute of war. Men go to war to kill and get killed, if necessary, and they should expect no tenderness. Each side protects itself as far as possible, and does all the harm it can to the opposing forces. It was, I think, a much better show of mercy for me to have the enemy do this work than to subject my own soldiers to so frightful a risk. At McAllister, when I made Major Anderson remove the torpedoes that had been planted there, he pretended that it was not civilized war to make him perform such a perilous feat. I told him he knew where the torpedoes were, and could safely remove them, while my men, in hunting for them, would be blown to pieces. He replied that the engineer had planted them, and he did not know where they were. I told him he knew better how to locate them than I did, and therefore he should do it. The fact that every torpedo was found and safely removed showed that my reasoning was right. I am not afraid to be judged either by contemporary or future historians on this subject."
The following anecdote of Grant was told, and illustrated with exquisite humor, by Sherman at a dinner:—
"Grant and I were at Nashville, Tenn., after the battle of Chattanooga. Our quarters were in the same building.
"One day Grant came into the room that I used for an office. I was very busy, surrounded with papers, muster-rolls, plans, specifications, etc., etc. When I looked up from my work I saw he seemed a good deal bothered, and, after standing around awhile, with his shoulders thrown up and his hands deep down in his trousers pockets, he said:
"'Look here, there are some men here from Galena.'
"'Well?' I said.
"Looking more uncomfortable every minute he went on: