Reveille in Washington

by Margaret Leech

  On Sunday, April 2, an extra Star cried the news of Lincoln’s telegrams to Stanton—furious fighting, great successes. Lee’s entrenched lines were broken. Grant was crushing him on the east. Sheridan was sweeping down from the west, carrying everything before him. The next morning, another telegram from Lincoln told that Petersburg was evacuated. Grant was confident that Richmond, too, had fallen. He was pushing forward to cut off Lee’s army.

  Shortly after this message was received, the operators at the War Department were startled by a new signal. For the man who bent over the instrument, the dots and dashes that spelled “From Richmond” were enough. Leaving Willie Kettles, a boy of fifteen, to copy the dispatch, he ran into the cipher room with the news. Operators hung from the windows, bawling “Richmond has fallen!” and soon, from all the bureaus, the War Department employees dashed cheering into the street. As the exultant cry echoed through the town, it was at first received with incredulity. People stormed the newspaper offices, snatched the thousands of extras which speedily appeared with official confirmation of the victory. “Glory!!! Hail Columbia!!! Hallelujah!!!” screamed the Star. “Richmond Ours!!!”

  From Fourteenth and M Streets sounded a deafening salute of eight hundred guns—three hundred for Petersburg and five hundred for Richmond—and one hundred more boomed from the Navy Yard wharf. Every Government building spilled out shouting clerks. The circuit and criminal courts adjourned. Workers tumbled out of banks and offices and shops. Gleeful colored folk came running, convalescents panted out of the hospitals, and children skipped from the public schools to swell the holiday crowds. By noon, in streets dizzy with clanging church bells and waving flags, the entire population of Washington seemed to be abroad, shaking hands and embracing, throwing up their hats, shrieking and singing, like a carnival of lunatics.

  Oratory burst spontaneously from the steps of public buildings and hotels. Most impressive of all was the scene at the War Department, where Secretary Stanton faltered out a solemn speech to the multitude that packed the park. In a phrase that might have been Lincoln’s, he asked his hearers to beseech Providence “to teach us how to be humble in the midst of triumph.” The crowd yelled applause for his pious sentiments, though some called “Let her burn!” at the news that Richmond was on fire. There were tears in Stanton’s eyes, as people rushed forward to grip his hand, even to try to throw their arms about him. He had suddenly become the most popular man in Washington. “I forgive ye all yer sins, ye old blizzard!” a soldier shouted. Young Willie Kettles was brought forward to make a modest bow, and Secretary Seward, as nonchalant in victory as in defeat, delivered an amusing little address.

  As though by prearrangement, bands turned out, blaring the national airs, and the crowds marched in time to “Yankee Doodle” and “Rally ’Round the Flag.” Two squadrons of cavalry and a brigade of Veteran Reserves formed a parade, and found themselves being reviewed by General Augur in the grounds south of the White House. Carriages, draped with flags, went rolling along the Avenue. The fire departments galloped through town, blowing off blasts of steam.

  Black and white, the people of Washington whooped it up through the whole delirious afternoon. Fraternizing patriots went arm in arm to drink together, and nightfall failed to quiet their exuberance. That evening, the celebrated comedienne, Miss Laura Keene, opened a two weeks’ engagement at Ford’s in a composition of her own, The Workmen of Washington, a moral drama directed at exposing the evils of intemperance. It was a timely, if uninfluential, production. Champagne corks were popping all over Washington, and the drinking saloons were jammed. To assist the night force, the day police remained on duty until eleven. The patrolmen looked with tolerance on boisterous parties of songsters, escorting helpless drunks home, and arrested only flagrant offenders.

  The next day, the propeller, Rebecca Barton, proudly cleared for Richmond from the Sixth Street wharf. The steamer, Thomas Powell, came in from City Point with some three hundred wounded, chiefly from Sheridan’s cavalry. They had heard the big guns at Fort Monroe and had glimpsed bunting on the ships in the roads, but these men did not know that Richmond had fallen until the Thomas Powell docked. The newsboys who scrambled on board were soon sold out, and for once the pale voyagers to the hospitals were smiling.

  The State Department had recommended a grand illumination for Tuesday evening in honor of the victory. All day the public buildings swarmed with workmen. The White House and its neighboring departments grew gay with decorations. Patriotic mottoes embellished the State Department. The War Department was smothered in flags and ensigns. The Navy hung out a large model of a full-rigged ship. Over the main entrance of the Treasury was a transparency of a ten-dollar, interest-bearing United States note.

  The big Treasury, with its many windows, was bound to outshine the rest in concentrated splendor, and Mr. Stanton bestirred himself to make a striking effect at the War Department. Though it was a diminutive structure, it had overflowed into eleven buildings, some of which, like Winder’s and the Corcoran Art Gallery, were of imposing size. As the dark-blue evening fell, a man was stationed, matches in hand, in every window. Other men stood ready at a row of fireballs in the department park. There was a trumpet blast, a band crashed into “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and instantaneously, “like lighting gas-jets by electricity,” the branch offices gleamed in a comet’s tail along Seventeenth Street, while the little War Department swam in colored flame.

  From basement to dome, the Capitol burned like a beacon on its hill. Over the western pediment, Major French had contrived a great, gaslighted transparency, printed in enormous letters. The words could be read far up Pennsylvania Avenue: “This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvellous in our eyes.” There were illuminations at the Patent Office and the Post-Office, at all the army headquarters, the Marine Barracks, the Navy Yard, the National Conservatory and the hospitals. Superintendent Wood had been at pains to make the First Street prisons brilliant. The Insane Asylum glittered like a star.

  The community participated in the national celebration. The City Hall was lighted. Spangled hotels, restaurants, banks, offices and shops bordered the length of the Avenue. Grover’s Theatre was crowned with “Victory” in gas jets. Dr. Holmes’s funeral establishment was festive. Not only the Government officials, but numbers of private citizens had decorated their residences. Secesh had never been so little in evidence. Even the most virulent and obstinate, said the Chronicle, rejoiced to see the war drawing to a close. Relief and self-interest prompted many of them to illuminate their houses and display the Union flag in honor of the fall of Richmond.

  All Washington turned out to see the show. Throngs gathered in the Capitol grounds, and around the furnace glow of the Treasury. There were music and fireworks in F Street, where thousands stood wedged before the Patent Office at a Republican mass meeting. Under the gas jets which spelled “Union,” Judge Cartter of the District supreme court stepped forward on the Patent Office portico to speak of Jefferson Davis, “the flying rascal out of Richmond.” He made dark allusions to the national military institution which educated traitors to cut the nation’s throat, and hesitated not to say “that those who have been fed, clothed and taught at the public expense ought to stretch the first rope.” F Street rang with cheers for Judge Cartter, and for Vice-President Johnson, who dwelt on the same theme. Jefferson Davis, Andy ranted, had plunged the sword given him by his country in his mother’s bosom. Calls of “Hang him!” rose from the crowd; and Johnson shouted yes, hang him twenty times, for treason was the greatest of crimes.

  The President was at Richmond, watching the last struggles of Lee’s hard-pressed and starving troops, and Washington could hear no word from him on that night of celebration.

  Mrs. Lincoln had returned to Washington on Sunday, but on Wednesday she again left for City Point with a party of notables. That same day, an accident occurred in Washington which was influential in hastening the President’s return. While Mr. Seward was taking his afternoon drive, his horses be
came frightened, and bolted. The Secretary jumped from the carriage, and was violently thrown to the ground. He was picked up unconscious, suffering from concussion, a broken right arm and a shattered jaw.

  While the capital was concerned about Seward’s injuries, the tide of excitement was too strong to be checked by this one unhappy event. People moved that week in a dazzle of anticipation of still more triumphant news from Virginia. On Friday, April 7, there was great enthusiasm—more salutes, more flags—over the information that Sheridan had headed Lee off, attacking and routing his army. Washington saw a queer sight that day, when a rebel band serenaded Mr. Stanton. The musicians, bearing their instruments, were part of an arriving boatload of Confederate deserters. From the moment of leaving the wharf, they obligingly performed, and Washington was delighted with the novelty. So many gathered to hear them at the War Department that traffic was stopped. Those were unfamiliar tunes which serenaded the War Secretary of the Union; not “Rally ’Round the Flag, Boys,” not even “Yankee Doodle“; but “Dixie,” “Jordan” and “Aint we glad to get out of the Wilderness.” On Stanton’s behalf, Adjutant General E. D. Townsend welcomed the deserting musicians beneath the folds of the Star-Spangled Banner. Several expressed regret that they were unable to play a national air.

  The River Queen docked early on the evening of Palm Sunday, April 9. Lincoln went immediately to Seward’s residence, and was admitted to the sick chamber. Seward lay on the side of the bed away from the door, precariously stretched along the edge, so that his painful broken arm projected, free from any pressure. His face, swathed in bandages, was so swollen and discolored as to be nearly unrecognizable. He managed to whisper, “You are back from Richmond?” “Yes,” the President told him, “and I think we are near the end, at last.” Lincoln sprawled across the bed, resting on his elbow with his face close to Seward’s, and related the story of the last two weeks. At last, the Secretary of State fell into a feverish sleep, and Lincoln slipped softly from the room.

  Before he went to rest, the President learned from Stanton that Lee’s army had surrendered that morning at Appomattox. Few were abroad in the dark and damp to join the jollification of the newspaper reporters. Most people in the capital were informed of the surrender when, at daybreak next morning, their beds were shaken by the repercussions of the guns. The battery was stationed on Massachusetts Avenue, behind Lafayette Square, and cracking windowpanes in that aristocratic neighborhood provoked some of the residents to wish an end to the Union’s rejoicing. A large crowd of patriots was soon hurrahing in the bleak dawn. Many loyal persons, however, remained abed, satisfied to know that the tongues of the guns proclaimed victory for General Grant.

  The morning newspapers brought full details to Washington breakfast tables. Lee’s officers and men were paroled, and permitted to return home, the officers keeping their side arms and horses. The rainy April morning was lighted by the promise of peace. The capitulation of the Southern chieftain foretold the end of the rebellion, for it must quickly be followed by the surrender of Joe Johnston’s army to Sherman and the collapse of the other scattered remnants of the Confederate forces. For a second time, Monday was given over to celebration. At an early hour, flags were waving in the rain. The Government offices and many business firms granted their employees another holiday, and again the capital was in an uproar of salutes, bells, music, cheers and speeches.

  There was not the wild hysteria that had greeted the fall of Richmond. Popular emotion had been too freely spent to repeat that outburst in a single week. Yet there was one new factor which made for the strongest excitement on April 10. The President was back in Washington, and to the White House, from breakfast time on, people went running like joyful children eager to see their father. Several times, Lincoln, hard at work in his office, sent out word to disperse the crowds, but twice he appeared briefly at the window. In the forenoon, a procession followed in the wake of the Navy Yard workmen, who had been rampaging through the streets with bands and noisy boat howitzers. While the little show-off, Tad, waved a captured rebel flag, there were shouts for a speech. The President’s appearance was the signal for pandemonium. Throwing their hats in the air again and again, men gave vent to throat-splitting yells of exultation. Lincoln briefly excused himself. He supposed that there would be some general demonstration, and he would say something then. He called on the musicians to play the good old tune of “Dixie,” which he declared had now become the lawful property of the Union. Late in the afternoon, he again responded to rousing calls by saying that he would defer his remarks; preferably until the following evening, as he would then be better prepared.

  The President’s features had lost their look of illness and fatigue. His thin face was shining. The burden of “this great trouble” was about to be lifted from his shoulders; but there was no elation in his happiness. Absorbed in thoughts of rebuilding the Union, his joy was sobered by the heavy responsibilities of victory.

  It was announced that the Government buildings would again be illuminated on Tuesday evening, and Washington prepared to give the President a grand ovation on the occasion of his promised speech. Its general tenor should not have been hard to anticipate. The President had become widely beloved as a man of mercy. Charity for all had been the keynote of his recent inaugural address. His conferences with Grant had been followed by generous terms to the defeated enemy. On Tuesday evening, across the Potomac, General Lee’s mansion blazed with lights, and a host of freedmen trampled the lawn, chanting “The Year of Jubilee.” But, to spare humiliation to the rebels, the Army of the Potomac had scarcely been permitted to enjoy its triumph at Appomattox. Grant had fed Lee’s officers and men, before allowing them to return home.

  While the illuminations turned a shrouding mist to gold, an immense throng gathered before the White House, filling the grounds and obstructing the sidewalks on Pennsylvania Avenue. As Lincoln stepped to the window, cheers surged and broke, and surged again. An observer felt that “there was something terrible in the enthusiasm. . . .” The crowd was vibrating with emotion, which a word from the President could have turned to frenzy.

  Lincoln, however, scarcely dwelt on the victory which was the reason for the demonstration. At this jubilant moment of his country’s history, his mind was fixed on the resumption of the relations between the Union and the rebellious States. As though he were addressing a persuasive message to the Congress which had already rejected his policies, he read from a carefully prepared manuscript an elucidation of his views on reconstruction, and their practical application in the case of Louisiana. His address was a defense and a plea; reasonable, expository, lacking in eloquence. It was a noble speech, and one quite unsuited to the humor of his auditors. Some reporters heard cheers, and cheers there must have been—for a personality and an occasion. Others said that the serenaders stood silent, surprised at finding their elation punctured by the arguments of statesmanship. On the subject of Negro suffrage, the President’s opinions were far too moderate to suit the radicals of his party; yet his statement that he favored giving the vote to certain colored men, the very intelligent and the soldiers, must have fallen with chilling effect on a part of his audience.

  There was at least one man who listened to the President’s speech with rage and sickness of heart. Booth, seared by the news from Richmond and Appomattox, was in the White House grounds. The tall figure in the lamp-lighted window made a good target; and perhaps for the first time, as Booth watched it, the thought of assassination burst, like an explosion, in his brain.

  Senator James Harlan of Iowa, designate for the post of Secretary of the Interior, followed the President at the window, and evoked an outburst by asking what should “be done with these brethren of ours.” “Hang ’em!” cried the crowd. There were shouts of “Never! never!” when he suggested that Mr. Lincoln might exercise the pardoning power. The crowd, however, sustained Harlan in supposing the mass of the rebels innocent. It was only the punishment of the leaders that they cheered; and there was gr
eat and prolonged applause for Harlan’s concluding statement, that he was willing to trust the future to the President.

  Calls for other speakers were interrupted when a band struck up “The Battle-Cry.” The misty drizzle thickened into raindrops, and the multitude began to disperse. Large numbers went off to Franklin Square to serenade Secretary Stanton.

  It was Holy Week, and on Wednesday the bells of religious mourning tolled incongruously in a city still occupied with celebration. Even the arrival of the wounded from City Point did not subdue the spirits of the capital. As though they had not already experienced ten days of carnival, the citizens were making elaborate preparations for still another jamboree.

  Rather spitefully the Chronicle had speculated on Monday whether Lee’s surrender would arouse the municipal authorities from their indifference to the successes of the Union. Gettysburg, Vicksburg, Savannah, Charleston and Richmond had failed, remarked the Chronicle, to startle them out of their lethargy. Although Mayor Wallach was loyal and the City Hall had been lighted for the fall of Richmond, there was some justice in the Chronicle’s attack. The dart struck home. By noon of Monday, Wallach had borrowed a battery which fired two hundred guns in front of the City Hall, breaking many of its windows in honor of Appomattox; and the city councils, goaded into enthusiasm for the winning side, requested by joint resolution a grand illumination for Thursday, April 13.

  The proposal met with prompt Federal co-operation. Illuminations were ordered in all the departments, and some fine new embellishments were added to the earlier displays. The Treasury hung out a second huge transparency, representing the popular issue, the fifty-dollar, seven-thirty bond. At the Post-Office, there was a striking display of a courier with the United States mail, and the words, “Behold I bring you good tidings of great joy.” Over thirty-five hundred candles were required for the Post-Office windows, and nearly six thousand for the Patent Office.