The farmer's contribution to the Chicago sanitary fair.
The Sanitary Fair at Chicago, in October and November, 1863, was the first of the series of great outpourings of the sympathy of the nation for its brave defenders, which were held successively at Boston, Cincinnati, Brooklyn, New York, Pittsburg, Philadelphia, and St. Louis, and which yielded such abundant resources for the Sanitary Commissions, in the prosecution of their work of mercy. Rev. Frederick N. Knapp, one of the secretaries of the U. S. Sanitary Commission, was present at Chicago, when, on the first day of the fair, the long procession of teams, extending many miles, came in from the country laden with provisions and other articles for the fair, and thus describes an incident which came under his notice:Among these wagons which had drawn up near the rooms of the Sanitary Commission to unload their stores, was one peculiar for its exceeding look of poverty. It was worn and mended, and was originally made merely of poles. It was drawn b) three horses which had seen [357] much of life, but little grain. The driver was a man past middle age, with the clothes and look of one who had toiled hard, but he had a thoughtful and kindly face. He sat there quietly waiting his turn to unload. By his side, with feet over the front of the wagon, for it was filled very full, was his wife, a silent, worn-looking woman (many of these men had their wives with them on the loads); near the rear of the wagon was a girl of fifteen, perhaps, and her sister, dressed in black, carrying in her arms a little child.
Some one said to this man (after asking the woman with the child if she would not go into the Commission rooms and get warm): “My friend, you seem to have quite a load here of vegetables; now I am curious to know what good things you are bringing to the soldiers; will you tell me what you have?” “Yes,” said he; “here are potatoes, and here are three bags of onions, and there are some ruta-bagas, and there are a few turnips, and that is a small bag of meal, and you will see the cabbages fill in; and that box with slats has some ducks in it, which one of them brought in.” “Oh! Then this isn't all your load, alone, is it?” “Why, no! our region just where I live is rather a hard soil, and we haven't any of us much to spare any way, yet for this business we could have raked up as much again as this is, if we had had time; but we didn't get the notice that the wagons were going in till last night about eight o'clock, and it was dark and raining at that, so I and my wife and the girls could only go around to five or six of the neighbors within a mile or so, but we did the best we could; we worked pretty much all the night, and loaded, so as to be ready to get out to the main [358] road and star, with the rest of them this morning; but I can't help it if it is little, it's something for those soldiers.” “Have you a son in the army?” “No,” he answered, slowly, after turning around and looking at his wife. “No, I haven't now, but we had one there once; he's buried down by Stone River; he was shot there-and that isn't just so either-we called him our boy, but he was only our adopted son; we took him when he was little, so he was just the same as our own boy, and (pointing over his shoulder without looking back) that's his wife there with the baby! But I shouldn't bring these things any quicker if he were alive now and in the army; I don't know that I should think so much as I do now about the boys away off there.” It was in turn for his wagon to unload, so with his rough freight of produce, and his rich freight of human hearts with their deep and treasured griefs, he drove on-one wagon of a hundred in the train.
A romantic incident of the war.
Governor Curtin, of Pennsylvania, was called upon at the Continental Hotel at Philadelphia, by a young lady. When she was introduced into the parlor she expressed her great joy at seeing the governor, at the same time imprinting a kiss upon his forehead.“Madam,” said he, “to what am I indebted for this unexpected salutation?”
“Sir, do you not know me?”
“Take a chair,” said the governor, at the same time extending one of the handsomest in the parlor. [359]
“ Shortly after the battle of Antietam you were upon that bloody field,” said she to the governor.
“I was,” replied the governor.
“You administered to the wants of the wounded and the dying.”
“ It was my duty as a feeling man.”
“You did your duty well. Heaven alone will reward you, sir, for in this life there is no reward adequately expressive of the merit due you. You, sir, imparted consolation and revived the hopes of a dying soldier of the Twenty-eighth Ohio. He was badly wounded in the arm; you lifted him into an ambulance, and, the blood dripping from him, stained your hands and your clothing. That soldier was as dear to me as life itself.”
“A husband?” said the governor.
“No, sir.”
“A father?”
“ No, sir.”
“A lover?”
“No, sir.”
“If not a husband, father, brother, son, or lover, who, then, could it be?” said the governor, at length breaking the silence, “this is an enigma to me. Please explain more about the gallant soldier of Ohio.”
“Well, sir, that soldier gave you a ring — C. E. D. were the letters engraved upon the interior. That is the ring now upon your little finger. He told you to wear it, and carefully have you done so.”
The governor pulled the ring off, and sure enough the letters were there.
“The finger that used to wear that ring will never [360] wear it any more. The hand is dead, but the soldier still lives.”
The governor was now more interested than ever.
“Well, madam,” said he, “tell me all about it. Is this ring yours? Was it given to you by a soldier whom you loved?”
“ I loved him as I love my life; but he never returned that love. He had more love for his country than for me; I honor him for it. The soldier who placed that little ring upon your finger stands before you.”
So saying, the strange lady rose from her chair, and stood before the governor.
The scene that now ensued we leave to the imagination of the reader. A happy hour passed. The girl who had thus introduced herself was Catherine E. Davidson, of Sheffield, Ohio. She was engaged to be married, but her future husband responded to the call of the President, and she followed him by joining another regiment. He was killed in the same battle where she fell wounded. She is alone in the world, her father and mother having departed this life years ago. She was the soldier of the Twenty-eighth Ohio who had placed the ring upon the finger of Governor Curtin, for the kind attention given her upon the bloody field of Antietam.
Unacceptable gratitude.
Lieutenant J n, late of the Sixteenth Regiment, was a few days ago walking down Main street, when he was accosted by a fellow, half soldier, half beggar, with a most reverential military salute: [361]“God bless your honor,” said the man, whose accent betrayed him to be Irish, “and long life to you.”
“How do you know me?” said the lieutenant.
“Is it how do I know your honor?” responded Pat. “Good right, sure, I have to know the man that saved my life in battle.”
The lieutenant, highly gratified at this tribute to his valor, slid a fifty cent piece into his hand, and asked him, when?
“God bless your honor and long life to you,” said the grateful veteran. “Sure it was Antietam, when seeing your honor run away as fast as your legs would carry you from the rebels, I followed your lead, and ran after you out of the way; whereby, under God, I saved my life. Oh! good luck to your honor, I never will forget it to you.”
A correspondent with the Army of the Cumberland, narrates the following incident:
A certain wealthy old planter, who used to govern a precinct in Alabama, in a recent skirmish was taken prisoner, and at a late hour brought into camp, where a guard was placed over him. The aristocratic rebel supposing every thing was all right — that he was secure enough any way as a prisoner of war — as a committee of the whole, resolved himself into “sleep's dead slumber.” Awaking about midnight, to find the moon shining full into his face, he chanced to “inspect the guard,” when, horror of horrors, that soldier was a negro! And, worse than all, he recognized in that [362] towering form, slowly and steadily walking a beat, one of his own slaves!
Human nature could not stand that; the prisoner was enraged, furious, and swore he would not. Addressing the guard, through clenched teeth, foaming at the mouth, he yelled out:
Sambo!
“Well, massa.”
“Send for the colonel to come here immediately. My own slave can never stand guard over me. It's a d-d outrage; no gentleman would submit to it.”
Laughing in his sleeve, the dark-faced soldier promptly called out, “Corp'l de guard!”
That dignity appeared, and presently the colonel followed.
After listening to the Southerner's impassioned harangue, which was full of invectives, the colonel turned to the negro with:
Sam!
“Yes, colonel.”
“You know this gentleman, do you?”
“ Ob course; he's Massa B., and has a big plantation in ‘ Alabam’ .”
“Well, Sam, just take care of him to-night,” and the officer walked away.
As the sentinel again paced his beat, the gentleman from Alabama appealed to him in an argument.
“Listen, Sambo!”
“You hush dar; I's done gone talkina to you now. Hush, rebel!” was the negro's emphatic command, bringing down his musket to a charge bayonet position, by way of enforcing silence.
