<h2>CHAPTER VI.</h2>
<h3>HIS TENDERNESS.</h3>
<p>Mr. Lincoln was one of the bravest men that
ever lived, and one of the gentlest. The instances
in his earlier career in which he put his life in
peril to prevent injury to another are very numerous.
I have often thought that his interposition in behalf of
the friendless Indian who wandered into camp during
the Black Hawk war and was about to be murdered by
the troops, was an act of chivalry unsurpassed in the
whole story of knighthood. So in the rough days of
Gentryville and New Salem, he was always on the side
of the weak and the undefended; always daring against
the bully; always brave and tender; always invoking
peace and good-will, except where they could be had
only by dishonor. He could not endure to witness the
needless suffering even of a brute. When riding once
with a company of young ladies and gentlemen, dressed
up in his best, he sprang from his horse and released a
pig which was fast in a fence and squealing in pain,
because, as he said in his homely way, the misery of the
poor pig was more than he could bear.</p>
<p>Hon. I. N. Arnold tells of an incident in the early
days of Mr. Lincoln's practice at the Springfield bar.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</SPAN></span>
He was coming home from a neighboring county seat,
with a party of lawyers, riding two by two along a country
lane. Lincoln and a comrade brought up the rear, and
when the others stopped to water their horses his comrade
came up alone. "Where is Lincoln?" was the inquiry.
"Oh," replied the friend, "when I saw him last he
had caught two young birds which the wind had blown
out of their nest, and was hunting up the nest to put
them back into it."</p>
<p>How instinctively Mr. Lincoln turned from the deliberate,
though lawful and necessary, shedding of blood
during the war is well known. His Secretaries of War,
his Judge-Advocate General, and generals in the field,
were often put to their wits' end to maintain the discipline
of the army against this constant softness of the
President's good heart.</p>
<p>Upward of twenty deserters were sentenced at one
time to be shot. The warrants for their execution were
sent to Mr. Lincoln for his approval; but he refused to
sign them. The commanding general to whose corps
the condemned men belonged was indignant. He
hurried to Washington. Mr. Lincoln had listened to
moving petitions for mercy from humane persons who,
like himself, were shocked at the idea of the cold-blooded
execution of more than a score of misguided
men. His resolution was fixed, but his rule was to
see every man who had business with him. The irate
commander, therefore, was admitted into Mr. Lincoln's
private office. With soldierly bluntness he told the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</SPAN></span>
President that mercy to the few was cruelty to the
many; that Executive clemency in such a case would
be a blow at military discipline; and that unless the
condemned men were made examples of, the army
itself would be in danger. "General," said Mr. Lincoln,
"there are too many weeping widows in the United
States now. For God's sake don't ask me to add to the
number; for, I tell you plainly, <i>I won't do it</i>!" He
believed that kind words were better for the poor fellows
than cold lead; and the sequel showed that he was
right.</p>
<p>Death warrants: execution of unfortunate soldiers,—how
he dreaded and detested them, and longed to
restore every unfortunate man under sentence to life and
honor in his country's service! I had personally an
almost unlimited experience with him in this class of
cases, and could fill volumes with anecdotes exhibiting
this trait in the most touching light, though the names of
the persons concerned—disgraced soldiers, prisoners of
war, civilian spies—would hardly be recognized by the
readers of this generation.</p>
<p>But it was the havoc of the war, the sacrifice of patriotic
lives, the flow of human blood, the mangling of precious
limbs in the great Union host that shocked him most,—indeed,
on some occasions shocked him almost beyond
his capacity to control either his judgment or his feelings.
This was especially the case when the noble victims were
of his own acquaintance, or of the narrower circle of his
familiar friends; and then he seemed for the moment<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</SPAN></span>
possessed of a sense of personal responsibility for their
individual fate, which was at once most unreasonable and
most pitiful. Of this latter class were many of the most
gallant men of Illinois and Indiana, who fell dead or
cruelly wounded in the early battles of the Southwest.</p>
<p>The "Black boys" were notable among the multitude
of eager youths who rushed to the field at the first call
to arms. Their mother, the widow of a learned Presbyterian
minister, had married Dr. Fithian, of Danville,
Ill.; and the relations between Dr. Fithian and his stepsons
were of the tenderest paternal nature. His pride
in them and his devotion to them was the theme of
the country side. Mr. Lincoln knew them well. In his
frequent visits to Danville on the circuit he seldom
failed to be the guest of their mother and the excellent
Dr. Fithian. They were studious and industrious boys,
earning with their own hands at least a part of the
money required for their education. When Sumter
was fired upon they were at Wabash College, Crawfordsville,
Ind., and immediately enlisted as privates in the
Crawfordsville Guards. Their career in the field needs
no recital here. Mr. Lincoln watched it with intense
interest. At the battle of Pea Ridge, having reached
high rank,—each promotion for some special act of
gallantry,—they both fell desperately wounded within
five minutes of each other, and only thirty yards apart.
Dr. Fithian hastened to them with a father's solicitude,
and nursed them back to life, through fearful vicissitudes.
They had scarcely returned to the army when the elder,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</SPAN></span>
John Charles Black, again fell, terribly mangled, at
Prairie Grove. He was hopelessly shattered; yet he
remained in the service and at the front until the last
gun was fired, and is now among the badly wounded survivors
of the war. I shall never forget the scene, when I
took to Mr. Lincoln a letter written by Dr. Fithian to
me, describing the condition of the "Black boys," and
expressing his fears that they could not live. Mr.
Lincoln read it, and broke into tears: "Here, now," he
cried, "are these dear, brave boys killed in this cursed
war! My God, my God! It is too bad! They worked
hard to earn money enough to educate themselves, and
this is the end! I loved them as if they were my own."
I took his directions about my reply to Dr. Fithian, and
left him in one of the saddest moods in which I ever saw
him, burdened with an unreasonable sense of personal
responsibility for the lives of these gallant men.</p>
<p>Lieut.-Colonel William McCullough, of whom a very
eminent gentleman said on a most solemn occasion,
"He was the most thoroughly courageous man I have
ever known," fell leading a hopeless charge in Mississippi.
He had entered the service at the age of fifty, with
one arm and one eye. He had been clerk of McLean
County Circuit Court, Ill., for twenty years, and Mr.
Lincoln knew him thoroughly. His death affected the
President profoundly, and he wrote to the Colonel's
daughter, now Mrs. Frank D. Orme, the following peculiar
letter of condolence:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="signature"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</SPAN></span>
<span class="smcap">Executive Mansion, Washington</span>,<br/>
Dec. 23, 1862.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Fanny</span>, — It is with deep regret that I learn of the
death of your kind and brave father, and especially that it is
affecting your young heart beyond what is common in such
cases. In this sad world of ours sorrow comes to all, and
to the young it comes with bitterer agony because it takes
them unawares. The older have learned ever to expect it.
I am anxious to afford some alleviation of your present
distress. Perfect relief is not possible, except with time.
You cannot now realize that you will ever feel better. Is
not this so? And yet it is a mistake. You are sure to be
happy again. To know this, which is certainly true, will
make you some less miserable now. I have had experience
enough to know what I say, and you need only to believe it
to feel better at once. The memory of your dear father,
instead of an agony, will yet be a sad, sweet feeling in your
heart, of a purer and holier sort than you have known
before.</p>
<p>Please present my kind regards to your afflicted mother.</p>
<p class="center">Your sincere friend,</p>
<p class="signature">
<span class="smcap">A. Lincoln</span>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss Fanny McCullough</span>,<br/>
Bloomington, Ill.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Gen. W. H. L. Wallace, who fell at Shiloh, was a friend
whom Lincoln held in the tenderest regard. He knew
his character as a man and his inestimable value as a
soldier quite as well as they are now known to the country.
Those who have read General Grant's "Memoirs"
will understand from that great general's estimate of him
what was the loss of the federal service in the untimely
death of Wallace. Mr. Lincoln felt it bitterly and
deeply. But his was a public and a private grief united,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</SPAN></span>
and his lamentations were touching to those who heard
them, as I did. The following account of General
Wallace's death is taken from an eloquent memorial
address, by the Hon. Leonard Swett in the United
States Circuit Court, upon our common friend the late
Col. T. Lyle Dickey, who was the father-in-law of
Wallace:—</p>
<p>"Mrs. Gen. W. H. L. Wallace, who was Judge Dickey's
eldest daughter, as the battle of Shiloh approached,
became impressed with the sense of impending danger
to her husband, then with Grant's army. This impression
haunted her until she could stand it no longer; and
in one of the most severe storms of the season, at twelve
o'clock at night, she started alone for the army where
her husband was. At Cairo she was told that no women
could be permitted to go up the Tennessee River. But
affection has a persistency which will not be denied.
Mrs. Wallace finding a party bearing a flag to the
Eleventh Infantry from the ladies of Ottawa, to be used
instead of their old one, which had been riddled and
was battle-worn, got herself substituted to carry that flag:
and thus with one expedient and another she finally
reached Shiloh, six hundred miles from home and three
hundred through a hostile country, and through the more
hostile guards of our own forces.</p>
<p>"She arrived on Sunday, the 6th of April, 1862, when
the great storm-centre of that battle was at its height,
and in time to receive her husband as he was borne
from the field terribly mangled by a shot in the head,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</SPAN></span>
which he had received while endeavoring to stay the
retreat of our army as it was falling back to the banks of
the river on that memorable Sunday, the first day of that
bloody battle. She arrived in time to recognize him,
and be recognized by him; and a few days afterward,
saying, 'We shall meet again in heaven,' he died in the
arms of that devoted wife, surrounded by Judge Dickey
and his sons and the brothers of General Wallace."</p>
<p>These are but a few cases of death and mutilation in
the military service cited to show how completely Mr.
Lincoln shared the sufferings of our soldiers. It was
with a weight of singular personal responsibility that
some of these misfortunes and sorrows seemed to crowd
upon his sympathetic heart.</p>
<p>Soon after his election in 1864, when any other man
would have been carried away on the tide of triumph and
would have had little thought for the sorrows of a stranger,
he found time to write the following letter:—</p>
<blockquote><p class="signature">
<span class="smcap">Executive Mansion</span>, Nov. 21, 1864.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Madam</span>, — I have been shown, in the files of the
War Department, a statement of the Adjutant-General of
Massachusetts, that you are the mother of five sons who
have died gloriously on the field of battle. I feel how weak
and fruitless must be any words of mine which should
attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming.
But I cannot refrain from tendering to you the
consolation that may be found in the thanks of the republic
they died to save. I pray that our Heavenly Father may
assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you
only the cherished memory of the loved and lost and the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</SPAN></span>
solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a
sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.</p>
<p class="signature">
Yours very sincerely and respectfully,<br/>
<span class="smcap">Abraham Lincoln</span>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">To Mrs. Bixby<br/>
Boston, Mass.</span></p>
</blockquote>
<p>Once when Mr. Lincoln had released a prisoner at the
request of his mother she, in expressing her gratitude,
said, "Good-bye, Mr. Lincoln. I shall probably never see
you again till we meet in heaven." She had the President's
hand in hers, and he was deeply moved. He instantly
took her hand in both of his and, following her to
the door, said, "I am afraid with all my troubles I shall
never get to the resting place you speak of, but if I do I
am sure I shall find you. Your wish that you will meet
me there has fully paid for all I have done for you."</p>
<p>Perhaps none of Mr. Lincoln's ambitions were more
fully realized than the wish expressed to Joshua F. Speed:
Die when I may, I want it said of me by those who know
me best that I always plucked a thistle and planted a
flower where I thought a flower would grow.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</SPAN></span></p>
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