Chapter 37
As soon as Lincoln was elected the attitude of the South showed clearlythat 'the irrepressible conflict', of Mr Seward's naming, had only justbegun. The Herald gave columns every day to the news of 'the comingRevolution', as it was pleased to call it. There was loud talk of war atand after the great Pine Street meeting of December 15. South Carolinaseceded, five days later, and then we knew what was coming, albeit, wesaw only the dim shadow of that mighty struggle that was to shake theearth for nearly five years. The Printer grew highly irritable thosedays and spoke of Buchanan and Davis and Toombs in language so violentit could never have been confined in type. But while a bitter foe nonewas more generous than he and, when the war was over, his money went tobail the very man he had most roundly damned.
I remember that one day, when he was sunk deep in composition, a negrocame and began with grand airs to make a request as delegate from hiscampaign club. The Printer sat still, his eyes close to the paper, hispen flying at high speed. The coloured orator went on lifting hisvoice in a set petition. Mr Greeley bent to his work as the man waxedeloquent. A nervous movement now and then betrayed the Printer'sirritation. He looked up, shortly, his face kindling with anger.
'Help! For God's sake!' he shrilled impatiently, his hands flying in theair. The Printer seemed to be gasping for breath.
'Go and stick your head out of the window and get through,' he shoutedhotly to the man.
He turned to his writing--a thing dearer to him than a new bone to ahungry dog.
'Then you may come and tell me what you want,' he added in a mildertone.
Those were days when men said what they meant and their meaning had morefight in it than was really polite or necessary. Fight was in the airand before I knew it there was a wild, devastating spirit in my ownbosom, insomuch that I made haste to join a local regiment. It grewapace but not until I saw the first troops on their way to the war was Ifully determined to go and give battle with my regiment.
The town was afire with patriotism. Sumter had fallen; Lincoln hadissued his first call. The sound of the fife and drum rang in thestreets. Men gave up work to talk and listen or go into the sternerbusiness of war. Then one night in April, a regiment came out of NewEngland, on its way to the front. It lodged at the Astor House to leaveat nine in the morning. Long before that hour the building was flankedand fronted with tens of thousands, crowding Broadway for three blocks,stuffing the wide mouth of Park Row and braced into Vesey and BardayStreets. My editor assigned me to this interesting event. I stood in thecrowd, that morning, and saw what was really the beginning of the war inNew York. There was no babble of voices, no impatient call, no soundof idle jeering such as one is apt to hear in a waiting crowd. It stoodsilent, each man busy with the rising current of his own emotions,solemnified by the faces all around him. The soldiers filed out upon thepavement, the police having kept a way clear for them, Still there wassilence in the crowd save that near me I could hear a man sobbing. Atrumpeter lifted his bugle and sounded a bar of the reveille. The clearnotes clove the silent air, flooding every street about us with theirsilver sound. Suddenly the band began playing. The tune was YankeeDoodle. A wild, dismal, tremulous cry came out of a throat near me.It grew and spread to a mighty roar and then such a shout went up toHeaven, as I had never heard, and as I know full well I shall neverhear again. It was like the riving of thunderbolts above the roar offloods--elemental, prophetic, threatening, ungovernable. It did seem tome that the holy wrath of God Almighty was in that cry of the people.It was a signal. It declared that they were ready to give all that a manmay give for that he loves--his life and things far dearer to him thanhis life. After that, they and their sons begged for a chance to throwthemselves into the hideous ruin of war.
I walked slowly back to the office and wrote my article. When thePrinter came in at twelve I went to his room before he had had time tobegin work.
'Mr Greeley,' I said, 'here is my resignation. I am going to the war.'
His habitual smile gave way to a sober look as he turned to me, his bigwhite coat on his arm. He pursed his lips and blew thoughtfully. Then hethrew his coat in a chair and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief.
'Well! God bless you, my boy,' he said. 'I wish I could go, too.'
Eben Holden: A Tale of the North Country Page 37
