Voices from the Past Part 163

I talked about my courts.h.i.+p days, and Grant said:

"...Let me tell you how I got hitched. We were buggy riding and had to cross a flooded creek. As the buggy sank into the water and the water poured in, she yelled: 'I'm gonna hold onto you no matter what happens.' After we crossed I asked her: 'Would you like to cling to me the rest of your life?' Or something like that."

We got to talking horses. I described some of my nags and some of my faithfuls. He talked about his West Point horses, thoroughbreds... Wilma could out-hurdle any other...six foot six inches...then he talked about Mexican horses and Mexican saddles...you should see the one I got as booty...silver ornaments...

It was good to get away from Was.h.i.+ngton.

When I reviewed Grant's troops, I rode his Cincinnati, a huge bay. The soldiers are always pleased by my visits.

I remove my hat and bow. Men clamor around me, huzzahing.

They stroke Cincinnati. They kiss my hand: these are the blacks who are willing to fight for the union. Grant singled out a corps: recently, they had captured six cannons, under fire all the time.

Cincinnati whuffs and bobs his splendid head, as Grant and I ride along, a woodland around us.

After lunch in his tent, he gave me a lieutenant's diary, written at s.h.i.+loh.

Our General Grant sat on his horse and watched the enemy try to capture a hill. Men fought from tree to tree. A man near me has been shot while aiming his rifle, one eye is closed, one eye is still open. A corporal has been disemboweled by a cannon ball. Riderless horses are running wild. Trees are plugged with lead bullets. I counted sixty bullets in a small tree.

I plan to collect personal accounts of the war; men must know.

Mary Mitch.e.l.l, a volunteer nurse, has written:

The wounded filled every building and overflowed into the country around, into farm houses, barns, corncribs, cabins. Six churches were full, the Odd Fellows' Hall, the Freemasons', the Town Council room, the school. I saw men with cloths about their heads, about their feet, men with arms in slings, men without arms, men in ambulances, carts, wheelbarrows.

At the center of this autumn harvest stood the little white Dunker church, where the teaching on Sundays was that war is a sin.

There the dead lay in gray and blue. In the fields lay thousands. Corn leaves over some of them were spattered with blood.

Grant and I ride. There is mud on the horses. His officers crowd round. Grant helps me dismount. We talk.

Grant speaks favorably of yesterday's battle, speaks with a rasping voice, hand to his throat. Behind his chair lies a muddy saddle. It is cloudy, cold. A private brings a dispatch. Grant reads it and nods. I respect this man.

Cabinet members reveal their excitement. Rumors. But the rumors may have solid foundations. Grant, they say.

Sherman, he left to rejoin his army. His army will move.

My secretaries believe in the rumors. Seward is optimistic. Hill waves his arms. Of course. At the telegraph office the men say "yes." It is a kind of yes that could mean almost anything. The newspapers are reporting this same news.

Mary has spent $2,000 for a gown. She has spent $3,000 for earrings. $5,000 for a lace shawl.

She thinks I do not know about these extravagances. My previous efforts at control produce hysteria, hysteria that lasted for days.

I remember Ann Rutledge.

I order the brougham and drive.

The April weather is fine.

As the war draws to a close I remember that four million people have been involved in this struggle.

I have heard from Robert but he reports that his mother's letters are unbalanced. He has offered to bring them to the White House when he has leave. He says that her letters have been distraught for months. He is deeply concerned over her condition.

Evening

Desk

Details are coming in.

General William T. Sherman, with his 60,000 men, has cut a swath across insurgent territory, a swath twenty to forty miles wide, and three hundred miles long.

All day the news comes.

All items confirm the success of his march.

Sherman's men have foraged off the country; their devastation of property has been extreme; miles of railroad track have been ripped up; rolling stock has been captured; his forces advanced ten or twelve miles a day. The Confederate press refers to his march as a scourge.

Savannah-that was Sherman's gift on Christmas.

Now, across the nation, a million and a half slaves have been freed.

Wednesday we went to Richmond by boat, a party of us, the day clear. Most of Richmond is gutted. Smoke is rising from burned buildings, buildings burned by the retreating Southern army. I walked a main street, holding Tad's hand, our escort with us. Along both sides of the street were derelict people, blacks and whites, hungry people, uncertain what our presence meant to them.

I walked into the capitol building, sat hesitantly at the desk of President Jefferson Davis. Sitting there, the escort nearby, I remembered a pubic statement made by Davis, that blacks are children, that slavery is their training school.

In the streets we were met by cheering blacks; they wished to crowd around, realizing we meant no harm.

I sent men to that h.e.l.lhole, Libby Prison, where thousands of our men have died of starvation and disease and torture; they are to be freed from that tobacco warehouse cesspool.

Riding in a carriage we saw the devastation of the city, ashes and memories. Five years ago today there were three million slaves.