The Gates of Light: Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The Gates of Light

Christmas, 1865

“To give light to them that sit in darkness

and in the shadow of death, to guide

our feet into the way of peace.”

Luke 1:79

The golden days of late autumn had arrived, and much of the work on the Prescott farm had been done in preparation for the coming winter. The great barn was filled with hay of oats and alfalfa, assuring that the dairy herd would have sufficient food for the long winter. The field corn had been harvested and stored in the drying bins. Firewood had been cut and stacked in the large woodshed. Apples and potatoes were placed in the underground storage cellar, along with assorted jars of canned vegetables: sweet corn, beans, and berries.

It was a Sunday afternoon, October 8, 1865. The sun, now nearing the forest-clad peaks of the western hills, reigned undimmed in a cloudless sky of azure. The great oaks and maples were clothed in garments of fading green mixed with shades of brown. The pines that dotted the valley surface and covered the mountains displayed their deep green that never changed, defying the turning of the seasons. It was a quiet time of the waning day. It was a time of peace. And, indeed, it was a time of peace. The great Civil War was over.

John and Rhoda Prescott sat near each other in John’s study, he reading and she knitting a sweater for her little grandson, George Albert. Rover was snoozing beside the fireplace, the warmth of which removed the autumn chill. Presently John laid his book aside. Memories of the recent months absorbed his attention.

He thought, with deep satisfaction and gratitude, how his and Rhoda’s five sons had fought and survived the great conflict. But his joy gave way to a deep, forever abiding, sorrow at the thought of their youngest child, Amanda, who had so courageously given of herself in service to the wounded and dying Union soldiers, and who, in the end, had yielded her life on the sacrificial altar of freedom. Yet, knowing that in this life joy and sorrow are inextricably bound up together in a union of opposites, he nevertheless rejoiced in the knowledge that the long years of war were over and a new beginning for America lay ahead.

He remembered when, on that Sunday of April 9, 1865, the news of General Lee’s surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia at Appomattox had been flashed by telegraph across the nation. He recalled just when the news, rapidly filtering into the smaller villages and countryside, had reached him and Rhoda. And he remembered when his copy of The New York Times had reached the farm.

“Here’s Monday’s edition of the Times,” John said, showing Rhoda the headlines. “Just look at the headlines! Headline after headline!”

“Well, a proliferation of headlines is certainly appropriate,” she responded. “It’s such glorious news.”

They read the paper together:

T h e N e w – Y o r k T i m e s.

VOL. XIV .. NO. 4225 NEW YORK, MONDAY, APRIL 10, 1865. PRICE FOUR CENTS

HANG OUT YOUR BANNERS

UNION

——

VICTORY!

—-

PEACE!

Surrender of Gen-

eral Lee and His

Whole Army

—–

THE WORK OF PALM SUNDAY.

Final Triumph of the Army of

the Potomac.

—–

The Strategy and Diplo-

macy of Lieut.-Gen.

Grant.

—–

Terms and Conditions of the

Surrender.

—–

The Rebel Arms, Artillery, and Public

Property Surrendered.

—–

Rebel Officers Retain Their Side Arms,

and Private Property.

—–

Officers and Men Paroled and

Allowed to Return to

Their Homes.

—–

The Correspondence Between Grant

and Lee.

John turned to page four and read, his voice nearly breaking with emotion:

PEACE

—–

The Surrender of Gen. Lee‑-The End of

The Great Rebellion.

The great struggle is over. Gen. Robert E. Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia surrendered yesterday to Lieut.-Gen U. S. Grant and the Army of the Potomac.

The thrilling word Peace‑-the glorious fact of Peace‑-are now once again to be realized by the American people.

The profound joy of the nation in this auspicious result, cannot be expressed in effervescent enthusiasm and noisy huzzahs: but will appear in the form in which it is so fitly and opportunely proclaimed by the Secretary of War‑-ascriptions of Praise to Almighty God and offerings of honor to the great leader of our armies, whom he has used as his instrument to save the nation.

The history of blood‑-the four years of war, are brought to a close. The fratricidal slaughter is all over. The gigantic battles have all been fought. The last man, we trust, has been slain. The last shot has been fired.

We have achieved, too, that for which the war was begun‑-that for which our soldiers have so long and grandly fought, and that for which so many thousands of brave men have laid down their lives. We have achieved this great triumph, and we get with it the glorious Union. We get with it our country‑-a country now and forever rejoicing in Universal Freedom. The national courage and endurance have their full reward.

The event occurred on Palm Sunday‑-the day which commemorates the triumphal entry of Christ into Jerusalem. It will henceforth be a patriotic as well as a pious holiday in America.

Just four years almost to a day has the war lasted. It was on the 13th of April, 1861, that Sumter was surrendered to the rebels. It was on the 9th of April, 1865, that the great rebel army was surrendered to the power of the Union.

The surrender of the army of Gen. Lee solves a thousand difficulties that but lately threatened us in the future. It simplifies the work of pacification in the South. It gives hope for a speedy restoration of order and fraternity.

The correspondence between Grant and Lee, which we give in full, is very direct and concise. Grant proposed the surrender on Friday last, and in three days after Lee accepted the terms.

The terms proposed by Grant are very simple, and doubtless had the approval of the President, who is at Richmond. We get all the rebel officers and soldiers, all the arms, artillery and public property; but the officers retain their side-arms, private baggage and horses. Each officer and man will be allowed to return to their homes, and will not be disturbed.

We have no idea that Jo. Johnston’s forces or any of the other rebel bodies will be of any trouble after this great event. Lee nominally only surrenders his own immediate army; but he is the commander of all the armed forces of the rebellion everywhere, and in one of his letters he speaks about negotiating with reference to the whole of the Confederate States forces under his command. This will undoubtedly be the upshot of the whole affair.

The great rebellion is crushed. The Republic is saved. PEACE comes again. To Heaven be the praise.

And then a second memory‑-the memory of an event so horrible as to be virtually unthinkable. On Saturday morning, April 15, 1865, the news of President Lincoln’s assassination reached the farm as John and Rhoda were eating breakfast. The news was brought to them by a friend who lived in the little village a short distance from the farm.

There was a knock on the front door. John left the table and, greeting his friend, asked him to come in. Rhoda heard the two men talking in low voices. They then entered the kitchen.

“Hello, Frank,” Rhoda said, rising and facing him. “What brings you here? Please sit down and have some coffee with us. We’ve just finished breakfast.”

But when she saw Frank’s face, drawn and sad as it had never before appeared, she exclaimed: “Something’s wrong. What’s happened? Have you bad news of one of our boys?”

“No, its not that. Its the President. Last night he was shot. He cannot live, they say. In fact, he may be dead at this very time.”

“Oh, no! It can’t be, it mustn’t be! Not after all that he has been through in this war, not after he has brought us our victory. It just can’t be true,” Rhoda sobbed.

“I’m afraid it is true,” John said, placing his arm around his beloved wife’s shoulders. “Otherwise Frank wouldn’t be here. Tell us, Frank, what you know.”

“I know very little, just what came over the wires this morning. A message from Stanton, Secretary of War, giving the barest details: that Lincoln was shot while watching a play given in a theater and that he lay dying in a small house across the street from the theater. That’s all we know right now.”

“And if Hannibal had been elected Vice-President in Lincoln’s second term, my old friend would soon be President,” John said to himself. “How strange the Fates, how strange, how inexplicable!”

Rhoda, still standing, was stunned. She then read her husband’s secret thought. Her face was set, blanched, and she sat down and rested her head in her arms and wept unashamedly. “Poor Asa,” she murmured, as she thought of her son and his attachment to the President.

A few days later, John and Rhoda read the full account:

T h e N e w – Y o r k T i m e s.

VOL. XIV .. NO. 4230 NEW YORK, SATURDAY, APRIL 15, 1865. PRICE FOUR CENTS

AWFUL EVENT.

—–

President Lincoln

Shot by an

Assassin.

—–

THE ACT OF A DESPERATE REBEL

—–

The President Still Lives at

Last Accounts.

—–

No Hopes Entertained of His

Recovery.

—–

Attempted Assassination of

Secretary Seward.

—–

DETAILS OF THE DREADFUL TRAGEDY.

—–

Washington, Friday, April 14‑-12:30 A.M.

The President was shot in a theatre tonight, and is, perhaps, mortally wounded.

Secretary Seward was also assassinated.

Second Dispatch.

Washington, Friday, April 14.

President Lincoln and wife, with other friends, this evening visited Ford’s Theatre for the purpose of witnessing the performance of the “American Cousin.”

It was announced in the papers that Gen. Grant would also be present, but he took the late train of cars to New-Jersey.

The theatre was densely crowded, and everybody seemed delighted with the scene before them. During the third act, and while there was a temporary pause for one of the actors to enter, a sharp report of a pistol was heard, which merely attracted attention, but suggesting nothing serious, until a man rushed to the front of the President’s box, waving a dagger in his right hand, and exclaiming “sic semper tyrannis,” and immediately leaped from the box, which was in the second tier, to the stage beneath, and ran across to the opposite side, making his escape amid the bewilderment of the audience from the rear of the theatre, and mounting a horse, fled.

The screams of Mrs. Lincoln first disclosed the fact to the audience that the President had been shot, when all present rose to their feet, rushing toward the stage, many exclaiming “Hang him! hang him!”

The excitement was of the wildest possible description, and of course there was an abrupt termination of the theatrical performance.

There was a rush toward the President’s box, when cries were heard: “Stand back and give him air.” “Has any one stimulants?” On a hasty examination, it was found that the President had been shot through the head, above and back of the temporal bone, and that some of the brain was oozing out. He was removed to a private house opposite to the theatre, and the Surgeon-General of the army, and other surgeons sent for to attend to his condition.

ANOTHER ACCOUNT

—–

Special Dispatch to the New-York Times.

Washington, Friday, April 14, 11:15 P.M.

A stroke from Heaven laying the whole of the city in instant ruins could not have startled us as did the word that broke from Ford’s Theatre a half hour ago that the President had been shot. It flew everywhere in five minutes, and set five thousand people in swift and excited motion on the instant.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The President’s wound is reported mortal. He was at once taken into the house opposite the theatre.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

2 o’clock A.M.

The President still lives, but lies insensible, as he has since the first moment, and no hopes are entertained that he can survive.

The most exaggerated stories prevail, among which one is to effect, that Gen. Grant was shot while on his way to Philadelphia, of course this is not true.

Another is, that every member of Mr. Seward’s family was wounded in the struggle with the assassin there. This also is untrue. Mr. Fred Seward, the Assistant Secretary, and Major Clarence Seward, of the army, were wounded, neither of them dangerously.

—–

THE CONDITION OF THE PRESIDENT

Washington, April 15‑-2:12 A.M.

The President is still alive; but he is growing weaker. The ball is lodged in his brain, three inches from where it entered the skull. He remains insensible, and his condition is utterly hopeless.

The Vice-President has been to see him; but all company, except the members of the Cabinet and of the family, is rigidly excluded.

Large crowds still continue in the street, as near to the house as the line of guards allows.

Finally, as he sat in his favorite chair that Sunday afternoon, John recalled the grand review of The Army of the Potomac. He and Rhoda had received a letter from their friend, the former Vice-President, Hannibal Hamlin,

Washington, May 5, 1865

Dear John and Rhoda:

I do not need to add anything concerning the tragic death of Mr. Lincoln. You have, undoubtedly, read the papers and become apprized of the circumstances of the President’s assassination and of the events of his funeral here in Washington on the 19th of April. As you know, yesterday Lincoln was interred in Oak Ridge cemetery at springfield, Illinois. Asa should be back in Washington in the near future.

We are keeping our home here in Washington, as I plan to run for my old Senate seat. As I’m sure you know, the plans are to hold the grand review of The Army of the Potomac on May 23, with the review of General Sherman’s army on the following day, the 24th. It now appears that of your five soldier sons, only William will march in the victory parade. Horace’s battery of artillery, although it is in the Washington area, will not participate, since the Sixth Corps, to which the battery is attached, is at Danville. However, there will be a review of the Sixth some time later, perhaps next month. Lewis’ 1st Maine cavalry is at Petersburg. George is still with the Army of the Shenandoah guarding the Valley. Asa’s unit, as you are aware, was mustered out last year, and it will not participate in the occasion. However, I’m sure, Asa will observe the review, as will Horace. Why not come, as many of your family that can get away, and stay with us? We have plenty of room. If at all possible, you ought to witness such a grand event, especially since William will be marching in the review. You will also have the opportunity to see Horace and Asa.

We will not take no for an answer, and we are already preparing for your visit with us. Let us know as to your plans, your arrival time, etc.

You have, as always, our warmest affection.

Cordially,

Hannibal

John and Rhoda accepted their old friend’s invitation, for they were anxious to see their warrior son march in the final parade of The Army of the Potomac, whose fortunes they had watched over the four years of the war. While they made preparation for their trip to Washington, the Union armies began gathering in the vicinity of the Capitol.

The 11th Massachusetts, William’s regiment of infantry, left Appomattox Court House soon after Lee’s surrender. The boys came to Richmond and, circling the works, marched on the double-quick through the streets of that desolate city. They then reached Washington, marching by easy stages. On April 20, the 9th Massachusetts Battery left its camp near Nottoway Court House, and by May 13, after a march of 140 miles, Horace was with his comrades in camp near Alexandria.

Near the close of the third week of May, John and Rhoda, accompanied by Eliza Ann, Horace’s wife, reached Washington and were met at the train depot by the Hamlins.

“You look well, John,” Hannibal remarked, as he greeted the party. “I believe that life on your Maine farm is more conducive to health and rigor than is life here in Washington.”

“Yes,” Rhoda said, “there is no better place in which to live than our beloved Maine.”

Some time later, the guests were settled comfortably in their rooms. Dinner was served later that evening, and the friends of long-standing spent an enjoyable evening conversing with one another. John and Hannibal stayed up rather late, talking of former days when they were in college together. Their discussions then turned to the present‑-its triumph and tragedy‑-and, finally, to the future and its challenges and opportunities.

On that Tuesday, May 23, the sun rose early and, in a cloudless sky, began its westering journey across the high heavens. Stellar rays soon caught the colorful bunting that now replaced the black crepe of mourning that had bespoken the nation’s grief over the last several weeks. Flags now flew at full mast in the morning breeze. Everywhere in the city there were arches and transparencies inscribed with patriotic mottoes.

In the predawn of that morning, William and Joe roused themselves out of their slumber and prepared for the pageant of victory. After a good and substantial breakfast, they stood with others of their regiment in readiness for the day’s activity. The men wore their old, faded field uniforms. While they brought themselves up to the standard of regular field inspection, their accoutrements clean and burnished, they wanted to keep their identity as rugged battle-tested veterans. There was little conversation among the men. They were silenced by the mystery of time’s passage: that, after four long years of glory intermingled with tragedy, the army that now stood on the banks of the river from which it had taken its departure and its name was assembled for the last time.

At 7 o’clock the Second Corps, in which William served, left its camp at Arlington, crossed the Potomac on Long Bridge, and continued on up Maryland Avenue toward the Capitol. First the Ninth Corps, next the Fifth Corps, and finally the Second Corps, would march along Pennsylvania Avenue from the Capitol to the White House and on west to Georgetown. There was nothing to do now, William remarked to Joe, but to wait patiently until the bugle rang out the signal: “Prepare for Review!”

At 8:00 that same morning, John, Rhoda, Asa, and Eliza sat with the Hamlins on bleachers lining Pennsylvania Avenue. Horace, who had received a pass to leave his camp in the vicinity of Alexandria, was with the group, seated beside Eliza. Their position was a good one, not far from the President’s reviewing stand in front of the White House. They saw that the stand was not yet filled, as it soon would be, with distinguished government officials, including the President, and representatives of foreign nations. They soon noticed General Grant, one of the earliest to arrive, walking with his staff. He had come on foot through the White House grounds from Army headquarters at the corner of 17th and F Streets. When the crowd recognized him, the air rang with the sound of a boisterous demonstration.

Precisely at 9 o’clock the signal gun was fired. To the accompaniment of martial music, the column of soldiers, twelve abreast, began its march up Pennsylvania Avenue. General Meade, commander of The Army of the Potomac, led the column. The crowd went wild with excitement. The plaudits of thousands followed him along his line of march. Flowers were thrown in his path, and garlands were placed on his person and his horse. When he reached the reviewing stand, he dismounted and stepped on the platform, and was greeted by all present.

Next came the cavalry, led by Brigadier-General Wesley A. Merritt, who was commanding in the absence of Sheridan. Rhoda gazed spellbound on this scene: seven continuous miles of cavalry, the horses’ steel-shod hooves striking the pavement as with the sharp ring of the mythic god of the anvil. But where were the names of those of whom she had so often heard in letters from her cavalry son? Where was Gregg? Where was Smith? Where was Cilley, with his 1st Maine? Where was Lewis? Ah, but she knew the answer to those questions! She knew that they were yet on duty to complete the peace in front of Petersburg. How she would have loved to have seen him in this grand array of cavalrymen. So, amid the glad brightness of the occasion, her heart was filled with a touch of sadness and melancholy as she watched the hour-long passage of the gallant horsemen of war.

As the sun passed its zenith, came the greatest corps of them all: the Second Corps. It was led by its present commander, General Humphreys, mounted on his snow-white horse. Above the heads of the general and his staff flew the corps badge: the clover leaf‑-a triple mace to those who came against it in battle. Missing from the lead rank of the column was one whom John had known only by name, through William’s correspondence: Hancock, the general who led the Second Corps through the great battles of the Wilderness and Spottsylvania.

Then came the division of infantry for which the little group had been waiting for over three hours: the Third Division of General Gershom Mott. Although severely wounded the previous month, the general now commanded his division. Of this division, of the men associated with it, John and Rhoda also knew much. Here were the few remaining men who had fought beside William in the early days of the war, when they served together in the old Third Corps of Hooker and Kearney and Sickles. The names of battles and commanders of days past that were even now beginning to recede in the depth of time flashed across John’s mental vision‑-names that were not now here this day. There was Hooker, William’s divisional commander during the Peninsula Campaign of ’62. There was Kearney of the Third Division, waving with his only arm to push his troops forward, only to be killed later that year at Second Bull Run. There was Sickles, commanding the Third Corps in ’63 at Chancellorsville and at Gettysburg, where he fell severely wounded. There was Birney, who assumed the stricken Sickles’ place of command. And there was Berry, Second Division, William’s command, killed at Chancellorsville. All these, the old Third Corps and its corps and divisional commanders, absent this day from fame’s roster; all these heroes of combat ground down by the war mills of the angry god of Mars! Now these battle-tested soldiers of the old Third, Birney’s First Division and Berry’s Second Division, are on this day of May consolidated with Mott’s Third Division of Humphreys’ Second Corps. They are but brigades, so fearful have been their tribute to the ravishings of war, commanded by De Trobriand and McAllister. The division flag now flies the united symbol of the two corps: the diamond and the trefoil.

There was a break in the divisional column. “Look, John,” Rhoda exclaimed excitedly, “there’s General McAllister and the Third Brigade.” The group stood, all the better to see the men as they marched past. Then the regiment, William’s regiment, the 11th Massachusetts, came into view, its bullet-ridden and battle-stained flag, now, after the years of battle, almost a remnant, fluttering in the soft breeze. There were some who, their eyes dimmed by the tears of joy, broke through the restraining lines and rushed out into Pennsylvania Avenue and pressed their lips upon the folds of the regimental standard. At that moment, William, marching in measured cadence by the side of his long-time friend, swung past his parents. His pace was that which had been prescribed for the review, the “route step,” with the rifle over the right shoulder, the polished bayonet flashing in the brilliant sun. It was, for William, the high moment of the war, excepting, perhaps, the moment when he saw Lewis that evening at Brandy Station when he won his freedom from Confederate prison. But all that, and much else, was over. Now he was the victorious soldier receiving the acclaim of the nation, and, what was even of more importance to him, the rapturous gaze of his parents. It was a proud moment. He had fought the good fight and had won‑-won for himself, for them, and for the united country.

It was not long until the regimental band struck up an air. The music was soon recognized by the spectators. It was the old song of the 1st Massachusetts, now with the immortal words of Julia Ward Howe, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” As if recalling its night-march to Gettysburg, when the tired men gave their voice to the great hymn, the Second Corps once again lifted the majestic words in song. Then the spectators, lining the length of Pennsylvania Avenue, joined their voices with those of the soldiers. Tens of thousands made the air ring:

In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea;

With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me;

As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free;

While God is marching on.

Glory, glory hallelujah!

His truth is marching on.

Next came the artillery. The caissons, on which the cannoneers were riding, were drawn by teams of six great horses, well-groomed for the occasion. Attached to and trailing the caissons were the large-mouthed cannons, their huge barrels polished to catch the sun’s slanting rays.

The grand review lasted seven hours, from 9:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M. The last team with its instrument of destruction passed westward along Pennsylvania Avenue out of sight of the people. The Army of the Potomac had completed its last review. It had gathered its multitude of warriors for the last time, and, with its close-approaching dissolution, would soon disappear from the face of the earth, yet to live forever enshrined in the mystic sanctuary of memory.

The crowds were soon leaving. John, Rhoda, Asa, and Horace and Eliza accompanied their hosts to their home in the city. The next few hours were spent in conversation. A fine evening meal was then served, and the conversation was continued around the dinner table. The group discussed the events of the war, its closing days of triumph and tragedy, and the probable future of the country, including the fate of the defeated South. It was then time for Horace to bid his wife goodby and return to his camp.

“I should be home early next month, Eliza,” he said as he embraced her and bade her adieu. “Goodby, all,” he shouted, with a wave of his hand, as his horse sped him on his way to camp.

On Thursday, May 25, John, Rhoda, Asa, and Eliza, accompanied by the Hamlins, took a steamer to City Point, Virginia. Lewis met the party at the wharf, where there was much activity in connection with dismantling the Union war machine. The party then boarded the rail car and was soon in Petersburg. Lewis conducted the party to the military cemetery. The occasion was a sad one, and there was silence as the party walked to the grave site of Amanda. After a period of silence, Hannibal remarked softly, “Perhaps it had been wiser if I had not arranged for Amanda’s entry into nursing.”

“No,” Rhoda replied, “this is what she wanted to do. Otherwise she would never have been happy. We all knew the risks. She gave of herself willingly. We are sad, of course, but we have no regrets.”

“We’ve wanted to come here,” John said. “We now know where she rests, and we have been with her once again.”

The return to Washington was uneventful. In a few days, John, Rhoda, and Eliza were at their homes in Maine.

“John,” Rhoda said, “you’ve been dozing, and it is getting dark outside. Perhaps you should get the farm chores done before it gets any later.”

“Yes, I guess I have. I’ve reminisced‑-Plato’s Anamnesis‑-until I fell asleep. So much, so much, has happened to us. It seems impossible to absorb it all. The boys in the great battles of the war, William’s captivity, Asa’s wound, Amanda’s death, Appomattox, Lincoln’s death, the final review of the army‑-that all this should have occurred in our later years. What does it all mean? Shall we ever know?”

“You’re an incurable philosopher, John. As if I didn’t know! Anyway, you’d better get into action while I get supper ready.”

“Yes, yes, my dear, you’re right. There are things that need to be done.” With that, John put on his work clothes and performed the usual farm chores that brought a day to its close.

It was now a few days before Christmas. With the exception of the lingering sorrow over Amanda’s death, it promised to be a brighter and happier holiday season than any that had been observed since the Christmas of 1860, when the dismal prospect of civil war faced the nation. For the first time since that date, the Prescott family would again be reunited around the yuletide fire.

On June 1, Horace, with his 9th Massachusetts Battery, struck his shelter tent for the last time and packed his knapsack for the march home. His battery was the first of the artillery to leave the encampment, and it received a resounding cheer as the men moved out. After a march of six miles, Horace was on the rail car steaming out of Washington toward the northeast. He reached Philadelphia, via Baltimore and Havre De Grace, just after midnight, where a bountiful supper was waiting for the men. At 8 o’clock, he was on a boat headed for New York, which he reached at midmorning. After a few hours wait, he was on another boat for Providence. From there, at 9 o’clock on the morning of June 3, he entered on the last stage of his journey, by rail to Boston. On June 9, he was paid off. A few hurried handshakes and “Good luck to you,” then he set off for his home and the happy reunion with Eliza.

The remaining brothers reached their homes by substantially the same route. Lewis was discharged on the 28th of May and was soon reunited with Eunice at their home in Madrid, Maine. Asa’s service to the slain President ended soon after his return from the funeral in Illinois. He reached his home in Phillips, Maine, in early June. George, with the 5th Maine Battery, came in from the Shenandoah Valley soon after the grand review in May and was back in Phillips, reunited with Naomi and their baby son. William, with the 11th Massachusetts, was discharged at Readille, Massachusetts on July 14. It was a memorable evening when he appeared, with his knapsack slung over his shoulder, at the door of his boyhood home, to be welcomed by his delighted parents. And, of course, Rover recognized his old friend, and placed his front paws on William’s chest.

In 1865, Christmas fell on Monday. Midway the previous week, as John, Rhoda, and William were finishing breakfast, Rhoda remarked the fact that, especially as the entire family would be gathering at the old home place to observe Christmas, it was time to get a tree and set it up in the parlor.

“What do you say, William.” John asked, “shall we three go up in the hills this morning to get the tree?”

“Do you remember where we got our Christmas tree that last Christmas before the war?” William asked.

“Yes, yes,” Rhoda exclaimed. “How can we ever forget? Octavia and Amanda were with us. We had such a lovely time together that day.”

“Well,” William said, “I seem to remember a very small and beautifully shaped pine that grew next to the one I cut down. Let’s go there, where the two little valleys lead up from the knoll where we used to play during the summers.”

There was about a foot of new-fallen snow, spreading its soft mantle over the landscape. The large branches of the deciduous trees, oak, maple, and elm, were wrapped in a white coating, contrasting beautifully with the clear, blue sky. The large branches of the evergreens were bowed low under the weight of their glistening white burden.

John and William soon brought the old sled, drawn by a fine team, to the front door of the house, and Rhoda and Rover found their places in the conveyance. It was a nippy, frosty morning. The men had placed a deep carpet of straw on the floor of the sled. With warm bricks and plenty of blankets, everybody was soon comfortable. William drove the team. Soon the sled, its runners singing, was moving out the lane toward the hills on the east. It was, indeed, a joyous occasion, a time when it seemed that the lost years had been recovered, when anxious cares and deep sorrows had never been. Had the golden days of forgotten youth come again? Had the age of the Eternal Return finally arrived?

“Here we are,” William shouted, his voice ringing with exuberance. There it was: the small, symmetrical tree that had now grown to the appropriate size so as to qualify for the “perfect” Christmas tree.

“Ah, Nature still lives,” John said softly. “The ruins of war cannot destroy vitality. Here, in this land, sky, water, and forest, we find our hope and promise.”

With a few swift strokes of his axe, William soon felled the tree and placed it in the back of the sled. The return to the farm and house was swift, and the tree soon was fixed to its stand and positioned in the place reserved for it in the parlor.

Soon after breakfast the following morning, Naomi, George’s wife, and Eliza Miles, Asa’s wife, made their appearance at the door. “We’ve come to help you decorate the tree, Mother,” Naomi said. “Do you mind?”

“Oh, you know I don’t. You needn’t ask. We shall have such a good time together.”

Soon another knock on the door was heard. This time it was Rhoda’s daughter, Octavia, whose husband, George Russell, owned a farm in the Phillips area. She, too, had come to add her expertise to the work at hand.

Shortly thereafter, the sound of a small sleigh, drawn by a single horse, was heard. It was Eunice, Lewis’s wife.

“Somehow, I just thought that you would like some extra help, so I decided to drive over from Madrid to see you. It’s only a short distance, and the drive was so exhilarating‑-the unspoiled snow blanketing the fields, the snow-covered trees lining the road.”

Rhoda welcomed her daughter-in-law with a fond embrace. She laughed, as she rejoiced in the love and affection given by her sons’ wives. “At this rate,” she remarked, “all I’ll need to do is to supervise, if even that.”

The ladies chatted as they worked. They reserved some time for an interlude, dedicated to coffee and rolls. Strands of cranberries and popcorn were draped at intervals around the tree. Sprays of dried flowers, preserved from Rhoda’s garden, and bows of ribbon were set among the branches, adding a delicacy to the tree. Snowflakes made of white paper were placed on the branches to form festoons of white-spangled green. A few red ribbons were tastefully draped the length of the tree. Candles were set at the tips. Last of all, a star was placed on the top.

Saturday, December 23, was the day when Horace, Eliza Ann, Hannah and her husband, Gilbert Kingsbury, were to arrive by train from Boston. Marilla and her husband, Henry McKenney, were scheduled to arrive from Portland, Maine, on the same train. Now each family had children, so that a veritable crowd was assembling at the old home place for the Christmas gathering. It was arranged that the arriving guests should be rather equitably distributed among those families living in the area.

Again, as it was the Christmas of 1860, a small procession of horse drawn sleighs converged on the railroad station. Three sleighs were at the station when the train arrived. The arriving members detrained immediately after the train came to a standstill and were effusively greeted by their loved ones. George and Naomi had arranged to keep Horace and Eliza Ann. The decision had been George’s, with Naomi’s glad acquiescence, on the grounds that both men had served in the artillery and had much in common. Asa and his Eliza were to keep Hannah and her family. Marilla and her family were to stay with Octavia and George. It should be observed, however, that much of this arrangement had been logistically worked out by John, on such grounds as proximity of ages, distances to be travelled, the number of children involved, and so forth. Since the entire crowd would assemble at the home place for the Christmas celebration, John decided that the old homestead should be reserved for that occasion. Faced with such inexorable logic, Rhoda and William could do nothing but give their rather grudging consent.

Christmas Eve day was Sunday, which meant that the entire family would attend morning worship service in the little chapel by the river. On that morning the congregation filled the building to overflowing. The several Prescott families occupied, as nearly as space permitted, the pews where John and Rhoda and the children, from their earliest recollections, had sat. It was indeed, for all of them, a homecoming of worship. As the hymns were sung, the texts read, and the sermon spoken, many were the memories of olden days that filled hearts with deep emotion and filled eyes with unbidden tears. It is, indeed, a miracle, but there is such a thing, allowed us sparingly, to be sure, that is called “repetition.” Were it not so, were there not a homecoming of recall, life would be unendurable. But on that Sunday morning, the magic played well.

After the service, the families made their way to the home of John and Rhoda. Various dishes were brought by the several families and, when heated, added to the quantity of fried chicken that Rhoda supplied. Additional tables were placed in the dining room and kitchen, so as to accommodate the number of persons. The children were interspersed with the adults, although some preferred to associate with those of their own age. In addition to the main dish, fried chicken, there were mashed potatoes and gravy, carrots, beets, pickles, and hot rolls and jellies. Apple pie and coffee, with hot chocolate for the children, completed the delicious feast.

Rhoda had converted one of the third-story bedrooms into a playroom. The smaller children made their way to the room as soon as the meal was finished. The older children retired to the family room, where they could visit with each other and play games. The ladies began the work of clearing tables and washing dishes. John and his male guests made their way to the study on the second floor.

It was a large study, with shelves of books lining the walls. A fire glowed in the fireplace, shedding its warmth throughout the room. John placed his desk chair to one side of the desk, so as to be seated in the open. The men found seats on two sofas and several chairs brought in for the holiday gathering. Asa walked to the fireplace and rested his arm on the marble mantle. His glance fell on the numerous books that filled the walnut cases lining the walls. Rover soon came in and settled down comfortably by the fireplace.

“It’s so good to be back in this room,” Asa said to his father. “I’ve thought of it so many times over the years I’ve been gone.”

“Yes, it is,” William added. “I’m glad to be here‑-even if this is the place where I’ve stumbled over Latin verbs.”

This brought a hearty laugh, for the allusion to past lessons under parental tutelage was well understood by John’s sons.

There was some discussion, on the part of the soldier-sons, about their experiences in the war. Since they had quite thoroughly covered the subject in conversations previously held since their discharge from the army, the topic gradually turned to the present.

“I believe,” John opened, “that we will see troubled days, particularly for the South. President Johnson and Congress are at loggerheads over the question of Reconstruction.”

“The Boston papers are filled with news about the controversy,” Gilbert added. “But Johnson’s policy is substantially Lincoln’s policy of Reconstruction.”

“That is so,” Asa agreed. “I’ve often heard him say “Let ’em up easy, let ’em up easy.”

In line with that policy, President Johnson had appointed provisional governors, who were to supervise the administration of the oath of loyalty to those who would take it, with the exception of the leaders in the secession effort. When a sufficient number in the states had taken the oath, the newly-enfranchised citizens elected state conventions, which repealed secession, repudiated the war debts, and accepted Negro emancipation. Following this, state officers, legislatures and members of Congress were elected. Johnson thus hoped that, before Congress returned in session, what Lincoln called “the proper practical relations between these states and the Union” would be restored. But it would not work out that way.

“According to the Boston papers,” Gilbert said, “our own Massachusetts Senator, Charles Sumner, and Pennsylvania Representative Thaddeus Stevens have led the Joint Committee on Reconstruction in its decision earlier this month not to seat the southern Congressmen. So the lines between the President and the Congress have been sharply drawn.”

“This rupture may have been averted,” Horace offered, “if the southern states had not passed the ‘Black Codes.’ If the South wished to assure the North that the Negro would be given fair and just consideration, there’s no question but that they failed to do so when they passed the codes.”

“Yes, that’s true,” John interjected. “These codes place a new legal servitude upon the Negro, which has all the disadvantages of slavery and none of its advantages. Their liberty of action is still severely restricted, they are forced to perform compulsory labor, their right to representation in court is limited, and their right to hold property is denied. And they have no economic security or medical attention. Since they are no longer slaves, they have no value.”

“These codes are supported, though,” George put in, “by the people in the South. They resent the fact that, even under Johnson’s terms, the important people of the South, those who are qualified to enter public life, are kept from doing so. And they are afraid that, if the Negro is given the vote, they will be taken advantage of by politicians who will manipulate that vote against southern interests.”

“I think,” Lewis observed, having decided to put in his word, “that the South has some legitimate ground on which to base their anxiety. If our best qualified men were not allowed to represent us politically, just how would we feel. And, further, if the southern Negro is given the franchise by Federal action, why doesn’t that same action guarantee the northern Negro his franchise? It’s not just black and white‑-well, I guess that after all it is just that. What I mean is that there are arguments supporting both sides of the question.”

Lewis’ use of subtle ambiguity was not unappreciated by the group, and they responded with generous amusement at his finesse in expression. Especially was this the case with Lewis’ father, who remarked, “Well, son, you’ve got the old trick of language!”

“I’m afraid,” John said, “that the problem goes back to the human condition, the condition of our human nature.”

“Just what do you mean, Dad?” William queried.

“What I mean is this: Our Founding Fathers knew, and correctly so, that a society is made up by those of different and competing interests. They knew that, since human beings are by nature selfish and self-aggrandizing, those who gained and exercised political power would exploit those with less power. For this reason, it is the duty of Government to exercise power so as to secure the legitimate interests of all, the weak as well as the strong. Since the southern Negro, who is yet in a weakened condition, is now a part of the body politic, he must be protected by the Government against exploitation. This is his constitutional right. The radicals in Congress argue their case on this ground. Another factor in the northern equation, a strictly political one, is the circumstance that Congress knows that if the President’s plan of reconstruction is followed, the South will in all likelihood go Democratic, with the consequence that, coupled with the northern Democrats, the Republican Party will lose control of the Government. On the other hand, the southern White now fears that a self-aggrandizing northern power, backed by the Negro franchise, will result in the exploitation of legitimate southern interests. Against the autocracy of centralized governmental power, then, the southern states have their own constitutional right to manage affairs so as to protect white interests. That is their argument. They have their own special interests, which they intend to protect. All of which means that the controversy between North and South, White and Black, Union and States, is a controversy that has its roots in our own humanity, in its drive of selfishness. There is a deep, hidden spring, whose bitter waters feed, at the surface, the differences and animosities among peoples. We seem to be caught, especially these days, in a current from which we may find it impossible to escape. Beyond government, beyond policies, beyond procedures, there is a human nature that must be redeemed from avarice. That, William, is what I mean!”

There wafted into the study the strains of music coming from the downstairs parlor. “I think that it is time,” John said, “for us to leave this subject for awhile and refresh our spirits with the song of Christmas. What do you say? Shall we join the ladies and children in the parlor?”

His suggestion was readily accepted, and the men soon found places in the crowded room. Those who that late Sunday afternoon remembered the Christmas Eve of 1860, before the catastrophe of war, were deeply moved with poignant emotion. The present scene was much like that of an earlier time. Once again Rhoda was at the piano. Several of the children, seated around their grandmother, accompanied the piano on their musical instruments. The others in the group sang, their voices adding the meaning of articulate word to melodic line. They sang several of the old, familiar carols: “It Came Upon the Midnight Clear,” “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” and “Silent Night, Holy Night,” the carol loved most dearly by the family. But on this occasion, the last carol sung, now so appropriate to the war’s end and the hope of the future, was “Joy to the World.” Particularly fitting were the words of the last verse:

He rules the world with truth and grace,

And makes the nations prove

The glories of His righteousness,

And wonders of His love.

There was an interval of silence. Then John passed his well-used copy of the New Testament to his eldest son, Horace. Horace was somewhat surprised, for it had always been his father’s place to read the Nativity account. But John merely nodded, as if to indicate that the passage of time now required him to hand the family tradition to a newer generation. Rhoda saw the transfer of role and, for a moment, her facial complexion paled.

Horace, he who one day would be the “patriarch” of the family, read in a clear, strong voice:

And she brought forth her firstborn son,

and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger;

because there was no room for them in the inn.

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding

in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them,

and the glory of the Lord shone round about them:

and they were sore afraid.

And the angel said unto them, Fear not:

for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy,

which shall be to all people.

For unto you is born this day in the city of David

a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

It was now late in the afternoon. It would not be long until the shadows would reach the valley and begin their slow climb up the slopes of the eastern range.

“We’d better start for home, Naomi,” George said, turning to his wife. ” I’ve the chores to do. You and Eliza Ann may wish to stay longer, Horace. If so, I can come back for you later.”

“No,” William offered, “I’ll see that they get to your home.”

It was also necessary for Lewis and Eunice and their children to leave for their home. So the family circle at the home place soon diminished somewhat in circumference.

“I must inform all of you,” Rhoda announced, “that you may not get much more to eat during the remainder of the day.”

Some of the grandchildren took the news quite seriously and joined ranks in protest. But Rhoda soon assuaged their fears by a second announcement, “But we have lots of good things to snack on later this evening, after the men do the evening farm chores.”

John and his three sons, Horace, Asa, and William, changed into work clothes and went to the barn. Rover, suspecting that he might be in for a treat of warm milk, tagged along.

“I love this barn,” Asa said. “I shall never forget the story of its building, how Dad, his father and brothers, went up in the hills across the river and cut the timber for the frame, how they brought the large poles down by team and floated them across the river, how they cut and formed shakes out of pine.”

“I remember the Christmas just before the war,” Horace added. “It was the winter of the great storm, and we had to grope our way from the house to the barn and back by the use of a rope, lest we lose our way.”

“Yes,” John replied. “This old barn holds many wonderful memories of former days. It was well-built and has served us well.”

The milk cows were soon in the barn, their heads in the stanchions and locked in place. They ate contentedly of hay while they were being milked. The lanterns sent their soft yellow glow throughout the immediate portion of the barn, the rays flickering as if to keep time with the “swish-swish” of the streams of milk coursing into the buckets.

Horace laughed suddenly, startling the others. There was Rover, sitting nearby on his haunches, his mouth open, ready for his accustomed delicacy.

“Rover, you’re one little fellow who’ll never change. Alright, here you are,” Horace shouted, as he sent a stream of milk in Rover’s direction.

Everybody laughed. But the mirth was jovial, for here was a grown man of forty years reliving, after the horrors of war, an old boyhood covenant between boy and faithful companion and friend. There is a substance of early life that, fortunately, may withstand the ravages of time and experience.

The milking finished and the stock fed, the men came back to the house. They found the children in the kitchen, busy pulling taffy and popping pop corn. Several bowls of red and yellow apples were on the table. The aroma of fresh-baked pies emanated from the oven. Containers of coffee and hot chocolate stood on the top of the stove. The family members were soon around the table enjoying a snack before bed-time.

Christmas morning dawned bright and clear, the cold, crisp air filled with sparkling gems of crystallized moisture. A few inches of snow had fallen overnight and lay softly and placidly over the land. There had been no great storm this Christmas, as there had been that Christmas of 1860. It was as if the sky had withheld its tempestuous wrath and, in celebration of peace, had endowed earth with a white overlay of tranquility. It was as if nature, through her own mysterious forces, had spoken the ancient promise to the people of a stricken land: “. . . though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.”

John and William were up at sunrise and outdoors doing the morning chores. Rhoda was soon busy preparing breakfast. When the men came in, she served a hearty breakfast. They lingered for awhile over the breakfast table, sipping a second cup of coffee and putting the final touch on their plans for the day. Rhoda then proceeded to wash the dishes and assemble the utensils for preparing Christmas dinner. John and William arranged the tables and chairs in the dining room and kitchen in a manner to accommodate the crowd.

Around midmorning the sound of trotting horses and singing sleigh runners announced the arrival of other members of the family. The grandchildren, their voices ringing with laughter, tumbled over the threshold into the arms of their grandparents and uncle. The adults brought the presents and placed them under the tree in the parlor. A great fire burned in the fireplace and radiated its glow throughout the room. Hot apple cider, candies, and nuts, were placed on two small stands. When everybody was present, and some semblance of order had replaced the bedlam, the presents were distributed, first to the grandchildren, and then to the adults. Everybody was delighted with his or her gift. It was indeed a most happy time‑-the giving of gifts in commemoration of God’s gift of redemption.

There was now some time for the men to gather in John’s study and exchange ideas. “Rhoda,” John asked, “is there anything that we can do to help you? If not, we’ll go into a powwow in the study.”

“No, we ladies can manage by ourselves. We’ll do our own powwowing while we work on dinner. That’ll be fine.”

So the men followed John to the study. There were subjects concerning the recent war that John would like discussed, but he didn’t quite know how to go about it. Here were five of his sons, all of whom had fought in the great battles of the eastern theater. One, Asa, had been seriously wounded at Antietam. Another, William, had experienced the horror of prison. He sensed, to be sure, that the war had changed them. But he was not sure just how it had changed them. Whatever the changes were, they were changes at the inner depth of life. And there was Amanda, who had given her life as a nurse. What did it all mean? Did the war, the death and suffering, have a meaning for the nation? If any had found this meaning, surely those who had fought the war would know. While he believed that there was a meaning to the war, and had struggled over the years to search it out, he was not confident that he found the secret. Perhaps his sons might help. But he was reluctant to press the issue.

But he needn’t have worried. “You know,” William said, “if this war’s done anything, it has made a person realize how much he can care for another human being, even someone whom he’d never seen before the war. I remember the day, soon after Lewis and Ray found me near Brandy Station, that I walked over to Joe, who was cooking his breakfast, and announced, ‘Well, I’m back.’ I could tell, by the way he stood over his cooking, how sad he was. He was sad that I was missing, maybe even dead. You should have seen his face light up when he saw me, safe and sound, back at his side to carry on the war. When we left each other at the end, we were both disconsolate over the fact that our close assocation was over. But, of course, we were glad that the war was over. Anyway, he and I have a sense of companionship that is hard to describe. We seem to have a closeness that only the experience of companionship in battle can give. We’ll always stay in touch, meet at our regimental reunions as long as we live.”

The other soldier sons nodded their agreement. The war had forged bonds that no other form of association could create. Throughout the Union, there were cords binding thousands of veterans in a sacred harmony of spirit. These cords would bind ever stronger as the years passed.

“But, as strange as it may seem,” George said, “there are these kinds of relationships existing between former enemies. I wrote you, Dad, about how I befriended Mrs. Mary Jones, in the Valley, and returned her personal property that had been stolen by one of our men. I saw her and her husband several times before I left the Valley. It’s as if we had never been enemies, and, of course, we never were. We’ve become good friends, in fact, and I’m sure that we’ll keep in contact, maybe visit with each other sometimes as opportunity permits.”

“Well, I’ve an even better example of what George’s talking about,” Asa interjected. “There’s the prisoner I took at South Mountain, the fellow I fell on top of in the cavern on the mountainside. Now that’s a fraternity of enemies, if there ever was one. In fact, I received a letter from him the other day.”

This brought a smile, since the family knew, and had known now for several years, about Asa’s great exploit of enemy capture.

“I well remember,” Lewis added, “when Ray and I charged side by side in the great cavalry battles of the war. We were always on the alert to provide safety one for the other.”

“Yes,” John remarked, “if we can just nourish this bond of consideration for one another, extend it to all of our people, the war will have made a significant contribution to the nation. It will have this as part of its meaning. But whether or not this cord will bind us all, is a question. It is a possibility, but a fragile one. It all depends on us, on our purpose and effort. It is an opportunity, and I hope that it will be made real.”

“I was struck,” George said, “when Mrs. Jones’s mother said that she never wanted to see a slave again, that she hated slavery. I’ve often thought about that conversation I had with her. She saw that slavery wasn’t necessary to the southern way of life. Would to God that all of the South had seen that earlier and the war could have been avoided.”

“I’ve often thought about this question of slavery and the role it played in the war,” Horace added. “The war turned on the slavery issue, there’s no doubt about it. But the way it turned on the issue is interesting. At the beginning of the war, the South made slavery, the right of slavery, the issue. Lincoln didn’t make slavery the issue. For him, the issue was the preservation of the Union, with or without slavery. The war dragged on, and the South realized that if she were to win the war, if she were to get foreign assistance, she had to redefine the purpose of the war. So it became that of state rights, the right of the state to govern itself free from centralized authority. Lincoln, on the other hand, saw that the North could win the war only if it assumed an explicit moral character. So for the North slavery became the central issue. It now defined the war for us Northerners.”

“But this change of purpose,” Henry said, “took time. Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation was purely a war measure; slavery was but a secondary issue. Only later did the freedom of the Slave become the definite goal of the war. The recent amendment to the Constitution completes that process of defining the meaning of the war.”

“All that’s true,” Asa put in. “But Lincoln was always personally opposed to slavery. However, he thought that he had no constitutional authority to abolish it. That would have to wait for a constitutional amendment.”

“And that has come about,” John said. “The slavery question has now been legally and constitutionally settled, since the 13th of this very month.”

“I remember,” Asa went on, determined not to lose his point, “a conversation I had when I was in Springfield. I met an old friend of the President. He told me of a conversation he had with Lincoln before Lincoln’s election to the presidency. He said that Lincoln, who did not claim to be a Christian, could not understand how Christians could sanction slavery. I was so impressed by the conversation that I can almost recount it word for word:”

“Mr. Bateman, I am not a Christian‑-God knows I would be one, but I have carefully read the Bible, and I do not so understand this book,” and he drew from his bosom a copy of the New Testament, and continued: “These men well know that I am for freedom in the territories, freedom everywhere, as far as the constitution and the laws will permit, and that my opponents are for slavery. They know this, and yet, with this Book in their hands, in the light of which human bondage will not live for a moment, they are going to vote against me. I do not understand this at all.” He then paused, his features manifesting intense emotion; he arose and walked the length of the room, in the effort to regain his composure. He at length stopped, his cheeks wet with tears, his voice trembling and said:

“I know there is a God, and that He hates injustice and slavery. I see the storm coming, and I know that His hand is in it. If he has a place and work for me‑-and I think He has‑-I believe I am ready. I know I am right, because I know that liberty is right, for Christ teaches it, and Christ is God. I have told them that a house divided against itself cannot stand, and Christ and reason say the same; and they will find it so.”

He then spoke of those who did not care whether slavery was voted up or voted down, and then said:

“God cares, and humanity cares, and I care; and with God’s help I shall not fail. I may not see the end, but it will come, and I shall be vindicated; and these men will find that they have not read their Bibles aright.”

Much of this was spoken as if he was talking to himself, and in a manner peculiarly sad, earnest and solemn. Resuming the conversation after a short pause, he said:

“Does it not appear that men can ignore the moral aspects of this contest? A revelation could not make it plainer to me, that slavery or the government must be destroyed. The future would be something awful, as I look at it, but for this rock on which I stand”‑-(alluding to the Testament which he still held in his hand)‑-“especially with the knowledge of how these ministers are going to vote. It seems as if God had borne with this thing‑-slavery‑-until the very teachers of religion have come to defend it from the Bible, and to claim for it a divine character and sanction; and now the cup of iniquity is full, and the vials of wrath will be poured out.”

“What a marvelous insight that gives us into Lincoln,” John said. “He was certainly God’s chosen instrument for the task. No other in the nation could have endured as he did in prosecuting the war to its conclusion. He had a thin line to walk: to keep as much as possible in the bounds of the Constitution with its endorsement of slavery, to ward off the persistent ill-considerate criticisms of the radical abolitionists, to hold the border states to the Union, and to be patient until the time would come to abolish slavery for the sake of not only the Slave but of the existence of the government itself. He knew all the while, despite appearances to the contrary, that the war for the Union was at the same time the war against human slavery. He did not fail. Now he is gone; he did not see the end. But his legacy will persist as long as men dream of democracy and liberty. The country can never outlive the debt it owes this great man.”

Meanwhile, there was considerable discussion among the ladies as they prepared dinner. There was plenty of work to be done, as roasting the two turkeys, making dressing, cooking and mashing the potatoes, heating the home-canned corn and green beans, making cranberry sauce, and baking pies. But as the ladies set about their tasks in the kitchen and dining room, there were times when their progress slowed considerably, threatening the 2 o’clock dinner schedule.

“I’m glad,” Rhoda announced to her daughters and daughters-in-law, that the Negroes in the South are free and will have the privilege of voting. But I can’t see for the life of me why the majority of Negroes in the North are deprived of the franchise. And what makes me all the more incensed is, why can’t we women have the vote?”

“I knew it! I just knew it, Mother!” Marilla exclaimed. “I knew that this would be your next crusade.”

“Well, woman’s suffrage is coming,” Eliza, Asa’s wife, assured her mother-in-law. “Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony are continuing to organize suffrage associations all across the nation. One of these days, we will be granted our right to vote.”

“The war has revealed to the public the significance of women’s contributions to the nation,” Eunice added. “That’s one important consequence of the war. When, as it soon will, Congress grants the franchise to the Negro, it will find that it has set in motion a force that will not cease until women are given the same right. It may take some time, but the time will come.”

“I know that,” Rhoda said, “but I am still deeply insulted that this government will contrive to deny us rights granted to former slaves. I can tell all of you this, I’m going to join the agitators!”

“That won’t be anything new,” Octavia remarked. “But I’m with you, Mother. Women are United States citizens and should have every right granted to a male citizen.”

“Mother, you’ve always thought things through, sometimes better than Father has. What do you consider the greatest accomplishment of the war?” Marilla asked.

“The war has resulted in two things, that’s for sure. The Union has been saved and the country has finally rid itself of the cancer of slavery. But beyond these two things, it’s hard to say. It may take some time for any further meaning to become clear. Anyway, it will soon be time to take things up and call everybody to dinner. I’ll think about your question. Maybe later I’ll have something more to say.”

Dinner was served as scheduled. The adults and children gathered at the several tables. The seating was arranged so that the children could sit with their cousins. Those seated at the tables held hands while John returned thanks. The meal was a bountiful one, and those who partook of it were thankful for life’s blessings. The two rooms, the dining room and kitchen, hummed with conversation and laughter. It was, for John and Rhoda, a supreme occasion, when the family was once again together for Christmas.

When the dinner was finished, William took the children outdoors. They pulled their home-made sleds after them, and, reaching a slope in back of the house, were soon sailing down its incline over the snow. In about an hour, William and the children came in from the cold, stomping their feet and shedding their snow-covered outer garments. Eliza Ann and Octavia took the younger children to the third-floor playroom and watched over them while they played. It was an opportunity, which they grasped, for the two women to converse with each other.

The late afternoon passed all too quickly. This day, this first post-war Christmas day, was rapidly drawing to a close. The ladies were in the parlor, where a blazing fire in the fireplace radiated light and warmth throughout the room. Candles added their flickering points of light to that of the greater illumination of the yuletide fire. The children were seated on the floor, petting and talking to Rover, who seemed to revel in his star role. John and the men soon came in, returning from a tramp over the farm and the evening farm chores.

The adult conversation gradually turned to the topic of the significance of the war for the country. Asa first initiated the discussion.

“The successful conclusion of the war,” he observed, “has vindicated Lincoln’s hope that our nation shall have a new birth of freedom and that democratic government shall endure among the peoples of this earth. And the election last year, in the midst of war, adds its weight to the argument that democracy will prevail.”

“Secession and the war,” John added, “were a terrible rent in the fabric of democratic government. But, with God’s help, our democratic experiment with its principles and procedures, our Constitution, withstood these catastrophes. War is a terrible ordeal, but it has served to establish once and for all the victory of democracy. The nation has passed triumphantly through its most extreme trial.”

“Father,” Marilla said, “you’ve expressed our feelings so well. Your thought is so like Whitman’s.” And she walked to one of the bookcases and selected a fragment of the poet’s writings. She read:

For You O Democracy

Come, I will make the continent indissoluble,

I will make the most splendid race the sun ever shone upon,

I will make divine magnetic lands,

With the love of comrades,

With the life-long love of comrades.

I will plant companionship thick as trees along all the rivers of America, and along

the shores of the great lakes, and all over the prairies,

I will make inseparable cities with their arms about each other’s necks,

By the love of comrades,

By the manly love of comrades,

For you these from me, O Democracy, to serve you ma femmel!

For you, for you I am trilling these songs.

“‘For You O Democracy.’ This is indeed the war’s meaning,” Horace said in a hushed voice.

“I believe,” Lewis observed, “that in the future people will say ‘These United States is,’ instead of ‘These united States are.'”

“Ah, Lewis,” John exclaimed, “that is well put. The war has certainly forged us into one nation. For too long we have been but a collection of separate entities, separate states. We now stand on the threshold of becoming a completed, a finished, nation. It has been purchased by the blood of over a million of her sons, North and South. The war has been the power to mold us into one nation. Before us is the promise of a government so broad and impartial as to govern for the common good. We have proven to the world that our liberty as a united people is priceless, that it is worth dying for.”

It was time for the smaller children to retire for the night. The mothers took their little ones to their bedrooms and tucked them in to greet the sandman. The women soon returned to the parlor.

Rhoda had seated herself at the piano. She played several Christmas hymns, while the others, gathered around the piano, sang. John, lost in the reverie of thought, sat near the fire. He glanced at the fireplace mantle, on which rested Amanda’s flute. His eyes grew moist. Then, like an apparition from an unknown world, there seemed to appear a lovely maiden, clothed in wraith-like folds of shimmering white. With airy steps she walked to the mantle and brought the flute to her lips. She played again a song heard but once in days gone by. It was a song whose melody and harmony carried the ambience of realms celestial. Then, slowly, reluctantly, the song faded, the figure receded into the vague distances of the beyond.

“Mother,” Marilla asked, “have you an answer to my question?”

“Yes, I think I have. I believe that the war was fought in order to redeem and purify America from the stain of slavery, exploitation, and injustice. The war came because of our guilt in permitting human slavery. President Lincoln was right when he said that God had borne with slavery until the cup of iniquity was full. The vials of His wrath were at last poured out and the war came. ‘Without the shedding of blood,’ the Bible says, ‘there is no remission of sin.’ Now the blood has been shed, and, I trust, our sins have been remitted. Is it now too much to hope that our society will walk in God’s ways of mercy and justice? Surely, it is not. I pray that we will now appear before God as a redeemed and sanctified people.”

She had said it all. While this does not exhaust the meaning of the war, it was its larger meaning. Here, finally, lay the war’s justification.

Marilla, deeply moved, again walked to her father’s bookcase and found a copy of James Russell Lowell’s ode given earlier that year at the Harvard commencement. She spoke the closing lines:

Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found release!

Thy God, in these distempered days,

Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of His ways,

And through thine enemies hath wrought thy peace!

Bow down in prayer and praise!

No poorest in thy borders but may now

Lift to the juster skies a man’s enfranchised brow.

O Beautiful! my Country! ours once more!

Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled hair

O’er such sweet brows as never other wore,

And letting thy set lips,

Freed from wrath’s pale eclipse,

The rosy edges of their smile lay bare,

What words divine of lover or of poet

Could tell our love and make thee know it,

Among the nations bright beyond compare?

What were our lives without thee?

What all our lives to save thee?

We reck not what we gave thee;

We will not dare to doubt thee,

But ask whatever else, and we will dare!

The beauty and truth of poetry exercised their magic on the group. After a silence of several minutes, John, who had been gazing upon the family Coat of Arms, which was impressed on a plaque hanging on the wall above the mantle, softly spoke its words: Vincit qui patitur. Then those who heard the Latin witnessed something they had never before witnessed. He spoke these words in translation, “he conquers who endures.”

It was such a little thing. But for John, who loved the language, to render the words in English was something momentous. As if to soften the shock he had given his audience, he quickly resorted to the ancient tongue and enunciated the words of the United States Seal, a phrase from Virgil: Novus Ordo Seelorum. And, again, he translated: “a new age now begins.”

“It is a new age, a new era for our country,” he said, as if to make remission for his linguistic lapse. “We can voice the language of this our new land.” The members of this closely-knit family continued to look upon the face of the father, his features aglow as if illumined by the dawn of a rising sun. He then continued, addressing his warrior-sons:

“You have been true to these words. You have endured and you have conquered. You have engaged in the terrible struggle to drive from this land and from this people the evil of slavery. You have taken the sword to force the dark passes that lead to the sunlit plains of freedom. Now you join those who have gone before you. There will come a time when, in Valhalla, you will be greeted by our ancient progenitor, Sir James Prescott, who rode through the great forests of England in defense of the Queen’s peace.” Then he paused, reluctant to wax poetic.

But the magic had been created. There seemed to appear, silhouetted against the dancing flames of the fire, a procession of conquering heroes. There came, first, the young medical doctor, Samuel Prescott, who, on that night of April 19, 1775, coming from the home of his fiancee, overtook Paul Revere and rode with him to warn the citizens of Concord of British encroachment. There came the dauntless Colonel William Prescott, who fought stubbornly at Bunker Hill in June of that year. Then came one who had conquered in ways other than in war. He was Colonel William’s grandson, who had in life married his Susan, granddaughter of the British sea captain who had shelled his grandfather and his troops at Bunker Hill. He was another William, William Hickling, who wrote of the Aztec, the Inca, and the Spaniard. It was indeed an illustrious company who, in the illusion of fancy, opened their ranks to the new knights of liberty.

In a moment the screen of fancy was gone and reality took its place. John continued his train of thought.

“There must come, however, a greater conquest. The war is over, its power of conquest finished. It must now yield to a higher conquest. It must itself become captive to a mightier conqueror. ‘Thou hast ascended on high, thou hast led captivity captive: thou hast received gifts for men; for the rebellious also, that the Lord God might dwell among them.’

“We have passed,” he continued, “through the dark valley of shadows. The war has led us to the gates of light. These gates open to the upward path to the far, sunlit kingdom of love, where mercy and justice, freedom and peace reign supreme. They are gates easily opened, if we will but follow the Prince of Peace, and allow Him to guide our footsteps in the light of heaven’s way. I pray that we will keep faith with the promise of our future.”

And once again night descended upon the earth. Still the Star of Winter, Orion, gleamed in the southern heavens and sent its light earthward, a reminder, this Christmas-time, that there is indeed One who reigns over all