Lives of Poor Boys Who Became Famous

There were heroic deeds on this as on every battle-field. When a division of the Reserve Corps – brave men they were, too – wavered under the storm of lead, General James B. Steedman rode up, and taking the flag from the color-bearer, cried out, "Go back, boys, go back, but the Flag can't go with you!" and dashed into the fight. The men rallied, closed their column, and fought bravely to the death. Even the drummer-boy, Johnny Clem, from Newark, Ohio, ten years old, near the close of the battle, when one of Longstreet's colonels rode up, and with an oath commanded him to surrender, sent a bullet through the officer's heart. Rosecrans, made him a sergeant, and the daughter of Secretary Chase gave him a silver medal.

Two months later, the battle of Chattanooga redeemed the defeat of Chickamauga. Near the town rises Lookout Mountain, abrupt, rocky cliffs twenty-four hundred feet above the level of the sea, and Missionary Ridge, both of which were held by the enemy. On Nov. 24, Lookout was stormed and carried by General Hooker in the "Battle above the Clouds." On the following day Missionary Ridge was to be assaulted. Sheridan held the extreme left for General Thomas. Before him was a wood, then an open plain, several hundred yards to the enemy's rifle-pits; and then beyond, five hundred yards covered with rocks and fallen timber to the crest, where were Bragg's heaviest breastworks. At three o'clock in the afternoon the signal to advance – six guns fired at intervals of two seconds – was given. As Sheridan shouted, "Remember Chickamauga!" the men dashed over the plain at double-quick, their glittering bayonets ready for deadly work. Says Benjamin F. Taylor, who was an eye-witness, "Never halting, never faltering, they charged up to the first rifle-pits with a cheer, forked out the rebels with their bayonets, and lay there panting for breath. If the thunder of guns had been terrible, it was now growing sublime. It was rifles and musketry; it was grape and canister; it was shell and shrapnel. Mission Ridge was volcanic; a thousand torrents of red poured over its brink and rushed together to its base.

"They dash out a little way, and then slacken; they creep up, hand over hand, loading and firing, and wavering and halting, from the first line of works to the second; they burst into a charge with a cheer, and go over it. Sheets of flame baptize them; plunging shot tear away comrades on left and right; it is no longer shoulder to shoulder; it is God for us all! Under tree-trunks, among rocks, stumbling over the dead, struggling with the living, facing the steady fire of eight thousand infantry, they wrestle with the Ridge… Things are growing desperate up aloft; the rebels tumble rocks upon the rising line; they light the fusees and roll shells down the steep; they load the guns with handfuls of cartridges in their haste; and as if there were powder in the word, they shout 'Chickamauga' down upon the mounters. But it would not all do, and just as the sun, weary of the scene, was sinking out of sight, with magnificent bursts all along the line, the advance surged over the crest, and in a minute those flags fluttered along the fringe where fifty rebel guns were, kennelled… Men flung themselves exhausted upon the ground. They laughed and wept, shook hands, embraced; turned round, and did all four over again. It was as wild as a carnival."

Grant had given the order for taking the first line of rifle-pits only, but the men, first one regiment and then another, swept up the hill, determined to be the first to plant the colors there. "When I saw those flags go up," said Sheridan afterward, "I knew we should carry the ridge, and I took the responsibility." Sheridan's horse was shot under him, after which he led the assault on foot. Over twelve hundred men made Missionary Ridge sacred to liberty by their blood.

All seemed heroes on that day. One poor fellow, with his shoulder shattered, lay beside a rock. Two comrades halted to bear him to the rear, when he said, "Don't stop for me; I'm of no account; for GOD'S sake, push right up with the boys!" and on they went, to help scale the mountain.

When the men were seen going up the hill, Grant asked by whose orders that was done? "It is all right if it turns out all right," he said; "but if not, some one will suffer." But it turned out all right, and Grant knew thereafter how fully he could trust Sheridan.

The following spring Sheridan was placed by Grant in command of the cavalry of the Army of the Potomac, numbering nearly twelve thousand men. Here he was to add to his fame in the great battles of the Shenandoah Valley. From May to August Sheridan lost over five thousand men in killed and wounded, in smaller battles as he protected Grant's flank while he moved his forces to the James River, or in cutting off Lee's supplies. Meantime General Early had been spreading terror by his attempt to take Washington, thus hoping also to withdraw Grant's attention from Lee at Richmond.

The time had come for decisive action. Grant's orders were, "Put yourself south of the enemy and follow him to the death. I feel every confidence that you will do the best, and will leave you as far as possible to act on your own judgment, and not embarrass you with orders and instructions." About the middle of September Grant visited Sheridan with a plan of battle for him in his pocket, but he said afterward, "I saw that there were but two words of instruction necessary, 'Go in.' The result was such that I have never since deemed it necessary to visit General Sheridan before giving him orders."

The battle of Opequan was fought Sept. 19, 1864, Early being completely routed and losing about four thousand men, five pieces of artillery, and nine army flags, with an equal loss of men by the Federals. The fight was a bitter one from morning till evening, a regiment like the One Hundred and Fourteenth New York going into the battle with one hundred and eighty men, and coming out with forty, their dead piled one above another! Sheridan at first stood a little to the rear, so that he might calmly direct the battle; but at last, swinging his sword, and exclaiming, "I can't stand this!" he rode into the conflict. The next day he telegraphed to Edwin M. Stanton, Secretary of War, "We have just sent them whirling through Winchester, and we are after them to-morrow. This army behaved splendidly."

This battle quickened the hope and courage of the North, who begun to see the end of the devastating war. "Whirling through Winchester" was reported all over the land. Abraham Lincoln telegraphed, "Have just heard of your great victory. God bless you all, officers and men! Strongly inclined to come up and see you." Grant ordered each of his two Richmond armies to fire a salute of one hundred guns.

The next day Sheridan passed on after Early, and gave battle at Fisher's Hill, the Confederates losing sixteen guns and eleven hundred prisoners, besides killed and wounded. Many of these belonged to Stonewall Jackson's corps, and were the flower of the Southern army. "Keep on," said Grant, "and your good work will cause the fall of Richmond." Secretary Stanton ordered one hundred guns to be fired by various generals, fifteen hundred guns in all, for Fisher's Hill. Early was now so thoroughly beaten, that the Richmond mob wrote on the guns forwarded to him by the South the satirical sentence, "General Sheridan, care of General Early!" Grant's orders were now to lay waste the valley, so that Lee might have no base of supplies. Over two thousand barns filled with grain, over seventy mills, besides bridges and railroads were burned, and seven thousand cattle and sheep appropriated by the Union army. Such destruction seemed pitiful, but if the war was thereby shortened, as it doubtless was, then the saving of bloodshed was a blessing.

Oct. 15 Sheridan was summoned to Washington for consultation. Early, learning his absence, and having been reinforced by twelve thousand troops, decided at once to give battle at Cedar Creek. His army marched at midnight, canteens being left in camp, lest they make a noise. At daybreak, Oct. 19, with the well-known "rebel yell" the enemy rushed upon the sleeping camps of the Union army. Nearly a thousand of our men were taken prisoners, and eighteen guns. A panic ensued, and in utter confusion, though there was some brave fighting, our troops fell back to the rear. Sheridan, on his way from Washington, had slept at Winchester that night, twenty miles away. At nine o'clock he rode out of the town on his splendid black horse, unconscious of danger to his army. Soon the sound of battle was heard, and not a mile away he met the fugitives. He at once ordered some troops to stop the stragglers, and rushed on to the front as swiftly as his foaming steed could carry him, swinging his hat, and shouting, "Face the other way, boys! face the other way! If I had been here, boys, this never should have happened." Meeting a colonel who said, "The army is whipped," he replied, "You are, but the army isn't!"

Rude breastworks of stones, rocks, and trees were thrown up. Then came desperate fighting, and then the triumphant charge. The first line was carried, and then the second, Sheridan leading a brigade in person. Early's army was thoroughly routed. The captured guns were all retaken, besides twenty-four pieces of artillery and sixteen hundred prisoners. Early reported eighteen hundred killed and wounded.

Again the whole North rejoiced over this victory. Sheridan was made a major-general in the regular army "for the personal gallantry, military skill and just confidence in the courage and gallantry of your troops displayed by you on the 19th day of October at Cedar Run," said Lincoln, "whereby, under the blessing of Providence, your routed army was reorganized, a great national disaster averted, and a brilliant victory achieved over the rebels for the third time in pitched battle within thirty days." General Grant wrote from City Point, "Turning what bid fair to be a disaster into a glorious victory stamps Sheridan what I always thought him, one of the ablest of generals."

Well wrote Thomas Buchanan Read in that immortal poem, "Sheridan's Ride": —

"Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan!Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!And when their statues are placed on high,Under the dome of the Union sky,The American soldier's Temple of Fame,There with the glorious General's name,Be it said in letters both bold and bright,'Here is the steed that saved the day,By carrying Sheridan into the fightFrom Winchester, twenty miles away!'"

The noble animal died in Chicago, October, 1878.

"In eleven weeks," says General Adam Badeau, "Sheridan had taken thirteen thousand prisoners, forty-nine battle flags, and sixty guns, besides recapturing eighteen cannon at Cedar Creek. He must besides have killed and wounded at least nine thousand men, so that he destroyed for the enemy twenty-two thousand soldiers."

And now the only work remaining was to join Grant at Richmond in his capture of Lee. He had passed the winter near Winchester, and now having crossed the James River, April 1, 1865, was attacked by General Pickett at Five Forks. After a severe engagement about five thousand prisoners were taken by Sheridan, with thirteen colors and six guns. His magnetic influence over his men is shown by an incident narrated by General Badeau. "At the battle of Five Forks, a soldier, wounded under his eyes, stumbled and was falling to the rear, but Sheridan cried, 'Never mind, my man; there's no harm done!' and the soldier went on with a bullet in his brain, till he dropped dead on the field."

From here he pushed on to Appomattox Court House, where he headed Lee's army, and waited for Grant to come up. Richmond had surrendered to Grant on the morning of April 3. On the 7th of April Grant wrote to Lee, "The result of the last week must convince you of the hopelessness of further resistance on the part of the Army of Northern Virginia in this struggle. I feel that it is so, and regard it as my duty to shift from myself the responsibility of any further effusion of blood, by asking you to surrender that portion of the Confederate States Army known as the Army of Northern Virginia." Lee replied, "Though not entertaining the opinion you express on the hopelessness of further resistance on the part of the Army of Northern Virginia, I reciprocate your desire to avoid useless effusion of blood, and therefore, before considering your proposition, ask the terms you will offer on condition of its surrender." The reply was the only one that could be given. "The terms upon which peace can be had are well understood. By the South laying down their arms they will hasten that most desirable event, save thousands of human lives, and hundreds of millions of property not yet destroyed."

At one o'clock, April 9, 1865, the two able generals met, and at four it was announced that the Army of Northern Virginia, with over twenty-eight thousand men, had surrendered to the Army of the Potomac. Memorable day! that brought peace to a nation tired of the horrors of war. In July, Sheridan assumed command of the Military Division of the Gulf. Ten years later, June 3, 1875, when he was forty-four years old, he married Miss Irene Rucker, the daughter of General D. H. Rucker, for years his friend. She is a fine linguist, and a charming woman. Their home in Chicago has many souvenirs of war times, and tokens of appreciation from those who realize General Sheridan's great services to his country.

He was made Lieutenant-General, March 4, 1869, and when General Sherman retired from the position of Commander-in-Chief of the Army, Nov. 1, 1883, Sheridan moved to Washington, to take his place. The office of "Lieutenant-General" expires with General Sheridan, he being the last of our three great and famous generals, – Grant, Sherman, and Sheridan. In this latter city he has a home purchased by thirty-one of his leading friends from Chicago. He is devoted to his wife and children, honest, upright, and manly, and deserves the honors he has won.

General Sheridan was taken ill of heart disease about the middle of May, 1888. After three months, he died at Nonquitt, Mass., near the ocean, at twenty minutes past ten on the evening of August 5, 1888. He left a wife and four children, a girl of eight, a boy of six, and twin daughters of four. After lying in state at Washington, he was buried with military honors at Arlington Heights, on Saturday, August 11, in the midst of universal sorrow.

THOMAS COLE

Four of my favorite pictures from childhood have been Cole's "Voyage of Life." I have studied the tiny infant in the boat surrounded by roses, life's stream full of luxuriant vegetation; the happy, ambitious youth, looking eagerly forward to the Temple of Fame, steering the boat himself, with no need of aid from his guardian angel; then the worried and troubled man, his boat tossing and whirling among the broken trees and frightful storms that come to all; and lastly, perhaps most beautiful, the old man sailing peacefully into the ocean of eternity, the angel having returned to guide him, and the way to heaven being filled with celestial spirits. I have always hung these pictures near my writing-table, and their lesson has been a helpful and inspiring one.

No wonder that Thorwaldsen, the great sculptor, said when he looked upon them in Rome, "O great artist! what beauty of conception! what an admirable arrangement of parts! what an accurate study of nature! what truth of detail!" He told Cole that his work was entirely new and original, executed in a masterly manner, and he commended the harmony of color.

These pictures are hung in thousands of homes; but how few persons know the history of the artist! Born in England, Feb. 1, 1801, the only son in a family of eight children, and the youngest but one, we find him when a mere child, in some print-works, learning to engrave simple designs for calico. His father, a woolen manufacturer, had failed in business, and the family were thrown upon themselves for support. He was a kind and honest man, always hoping to succeed, but never succeeding; always trying new scenes to build up his fortune and never building it. Like other fathers, especially those who have been disappointed in life, he had hopes that his boy would accomplish more than himself.

He wished to apprentice him to an attorney or to an iron manufacturer, but Thomas saw no pleasure in Blackstone, or in handling ponderous iron. A boy of tender feelings, he found little companionship with his fellow-operatives, most of whom were rough; and he enjoyed most an old Scotchman who could repeat ballads, and tell of the beautiful hills and lakes of his native land. When he had leisure, he wandered with his sister Sarah into the surrounding country; and while she sang, he accompanied her with his flute.

With little opportunity for school, he was a great reader; and when through with designs for calico for the day, he buried himself in books, especially about foreign countries, and in imagination clambered over high mountains, and sailed upon broad rivers. He talked much to the family of the wonders of the New World; and when he was eighteen, they all sailed for America. The father rented a little house and shop in Philadelphia, and began to sell the small stock of dry-goods which he had brought with him, while Thomas found work with a person who supplied woodcuts for printers.

The father soon became dissatisfied with his prospects, and moved his family to Steubenville, Ohio, where he hoped to find a land flowing with milk and honey. Thomas remained behind, working on some illustrations for Bunyan's "Holy War," keeping up his spirits with his beloved flute; going to Steubenville the next year, walking almost the entire way from Philadelphia.

Here he worked in his father's small manufactory of paper-hangings; yet he had longings to do some great work in the world, as he wandered alone in the wild and charming scenery. He loved music, architecture, and pictures, but he hardly dared breathe his aspirations save in a few verses of poetry. How in that quiet home a boy should be born who had desires to win renown was a mystery. Nobody knows whence the perilous but blessed gift of ambition comes.

About this time a portrait-painter by the name of Stein came to the village. He took an interest in the poetic boy, and loaned him an English illustrated work on painting. Thomas had already acquired some skill in drawing. Now his heart was on fire as he read about Raphael, Claude Lorraine, and Titian, and he resolved to make painting his life-work. How little he knew of the obstacles before a poor artist!

He set to work to make his own brushes, obtaining his colors from a chair-maker. His easel and palette were of his own crude manufacture. The father had serious misgivings for his son; but his mother encouraged him to persevere in whatever his genius seemed to lie. As a rule, women discover genius sooner than men, and good Mary Cole had seen that there was something uncommon in her boy. His brushes ready, putting his scanty wearing apparel and his flute in a green baize bag, hung over his shoulder, the youth of twenty-one started for St. Clairsville, thirty miles distant, to begin life as a painter. He broke through the ice in crossing a stream, and, wet to his breast, arrived at the town, only to find that a German had just been there, and had painted all the portraits which were desired.

However, a saddler was found who was willing to be painted, and after five days of work from morning till night, the young artist received a new saddle as pay. A military officer gave him an old silver watch for a portrait, and a dapper tradesman a chain and key, which proved to be copper instead of gold. For some other work he received a pair of shoes and a dollar. All these, except the dollar, he was obliged to give to his landlord for board, the man being dissatisfied even with this bargain.

From here Thomas walked one hundred miles to Zanesville, and to his great sorrow, found that the German had preceded him here also, and painted the tavern-keeper and his family. The landlord intimated that a historical picture would be taken in payment for the young stranger's board. Accordingly an impromptu studio was arranged. A few patrons came at long intervals; but it was soon evident that another field must be chosen. What, however, was young Cole's astonishment to find that the historical painting would not be received for board, and that if thirty-five dollars were not at once paid, he would be thrust into jail! Two or three acquaintances became surety for the debt to the unprincipled landlord, and the pale, slender artist hastened toward Chillicothe with but a sixpence in his pocket.

After walking for three days, seventy-five miles, he sat down under a tree by the roadside, wellnigh discouraged, in the hot August day; but when the tears gathered in his eyes, he took out his flute, and playing a lively air, his courage returned. He had two letters of introduction in his pocket, given him at Zanesville, and these he would present, whispering to himself that he must "hold up his head like Michael Angelo" as he offered them. The men who received them had little time or wish to aid the young man. A few persons sat for their portraits, and a few took lessons in drawing; but after a time he had no money to pay for washing his linen, and at last no linen even to be washed. Still enthusiastic over art, and with visions of Italy floating in his mind, yet penniless and footsore, he returned to Steubenville to tell his sorrows to his sympathetic mother. How her heart must have been moved as she looked upon her boy's pale face, and great blue eyes, and felt his eager desire for a place of honor in the world, but knew, alas! that she was powerless to aid him.

He took a plain room for a studio, painted some scenes for a society of amateur actors, and commenced two pictures, – Ruth gleaning in the field of Boaz, and the feast of Belshazzar. One Sunday, some vicious boys broke into the studio, mixed the paints, broke the brushes, and cut the paintings in pieces. Learning that the boys were poor, Cole could not bear to prosecute them; and the matter was dropped. He soon departed to Pittsburgh, whither his parents had moved, and began to assist his father in making floor-cloths. Every moment of leisure he was down by the banks of the Monongahela, carefully drawing tree, or cloud, or hill-top.

Finally the old longing became irresistible. He packed his little trunk, his mother threw over his shoulders the table cover, with her blessing and her tears; and with six dollars in his purse, he said good-bye to the family and started for Philadelphia. Then followed, as he used to say in after years, the "winter of his discontent." In a poor quarter of the city, in an upper room, without a bed or fire or furniture, struggled poor Thomas Cole. Timid, friendless, his only food a baker's roll and a pitcher of water, his only bedding at night the table cover, he worked day by day, now copying in the Academy, and now ornamenting bellows, brushes, or Japan ware, with figures of birds or with flowers. Sometimes he ran down a neighboring alley, whipping his hands about him to keep his blood in circulation, lest he be benumbed. He soon became the victim of inflammatory rheumatism, and was a great sufferer. He still saw before him, someway, somehow, renown. Meantime his pure, noble soul found solace in writing poetry and an occasional story for the "Saturday Evening Post." After a year and a half he put his goods on a wheelbarrow, had them carried to the station, and started for New York, whither his family had moved.

He was now twenty-four. Life had been one continuous struggle. Still he loved each beauty in nature, and hoped for the good time to come. In his father's garret in Greenwich Street, in a room so narrow that he could scarcely work, and so poorly lighted that he was "perpetually fighting a kind of twilight," he labored for two years. Obstacles seemed but to increase his determination to persevere. Of such grand material are heroes made!

His first five pictures were placed for exhibition in the shop of an acquaintance, and were sold at eight dollars apiece. Through the courtesy of a gentleman who purchased three of these, he was enabled to go up the Hudson and sketch from nature among the Catskills. This was indeed a great blessing. On his return, he painted "A View of Fort Putnam," "Lake with dead trees," and "The Falls of the Caterskills." These were purchased at twenty-five dollars apiece by three artists, – Trumbull, Dunlap, and Durand.

Trumbull first discovered the merits of the pictures, buying the "Falls" for his studio, and invited Cole to meet Durand at his rooms. At the hour appointed the sensitive artist made his appearance, so timid that at first he could only reply to their cordial questioning by monosyllables. Colonel Trumbull said, "You surprise me, at your age, to paint like this. You have already done what I, with all my years and experience, am yet unable to do." Through the new friends, attention was called to his work, and he soon had abundant commissions. How his hungry heart must have fed on this appreciation! "From that time," said his friend, William Cullen Bryant, "he had a fixed reputation, and was numbered among the men of whom our country had reason to be proud. I well remember what an enthusiasm was awakened by these early works of his, – the delight which was expressed at the opportunity of contemplating pictures which carried the eye over scenes of wild grandeur peculiar to our country, over our arid mountain-tops with their mighty growth of forest never touched by the axe, along the banks of streams never deformed by culture, and into the depth of skies bright with the hues of our own climate; such skies as few but Cole could ever paint, and through the transparent abysses of which it seemed that you might send an arrow out of sight."