TALKING SPIRITS II

ORPHAN CHILDREN/CORDELIA HARVEY

Narrator: The soldiers' orphans.

Cordelia: There were things I saw in the Civil War

Narrator: Frances Woods. Four years old.

Cordelia: As I walked the hospital corridors--

Narrator: Daughter of Andrew Woods, who died at Cairo of disease.

Cordelia: Men without hope who had taken up arms.

Narrator: He was a soldier in Company F and died in April of '64.

Cordelia: They were men with children on Wisconsin farms.

Narrator: Frances died of scrofula in 1866.

Cordelia: They were hungry and tattered and fighting to live.

Narrator: Cornelia Rouse. Seven years.

Cordelia: It was but hope that did matter, and what I could give.

Narrator: Daughter of Charles Rouse, who died at Young's Point of disease.

Cordelia: Yet some of those men would never get home;

Narrator: He was in Company K and died in Louisiana.

Cordelia: Never again see Madison's dome.

Narrator: Cornelia died of diphtheria in 1866.

Cordelia: Never again walk through northern pine woods,

Narrator: Effie McIlwaine. Just five years old.

Cordelia: Or see all of Milwaukee's fine neighborhoods;

Narrator: Daughter of David of Company C.

Cordeila: Never again stand on the shores of Green Bay,

Narrator: He died at Mobile of disease, in 1864.

Cordelia: Or watch the sun rise at the start of the day.

Narrator: Effie died of typhoid fever in 1866.

Cordelia: Never again see their children or wives,

Narrator: Mathilda Stearns, eight years old, daughter of Erasmus.

Cordelia: Who cried when they found that their men lost their lives.

Narrator: He lost his life in the Battle of Petersburg.

Cordelia: The wives' tears were tears of sadness and pride,

Narrator: It was in 1865, two years after his beloved wife.

Cordelia: And fear for their children--that they might still provide.

Narrator: Mathilda died of consumption, following measles and congestion of the lungs, in 1866.

Cordelia: Fear--they did fear--for their families' future.

Narrator: Caroline Sawyer, at seven years old . . .

Cordelia: Hope--they did hope--that they still could endure.

Narrator: . . . the oldest girl of Reuben Sawyer, of Company H.

Cordelia: A woman like me who witnessed these things

Narrator: He died of disease in the state of New York, a date in April of' 65.

Cordelia: Could not stand by idly and not do something.

Narrator: The records were lost, but it is believed that Caroline lies buried here.

Cordelia: So I fought for the girls and I fought for the boys.

Narrator: Willie Blunt, nine years old.

Cordelia: I fought for their lives, that they might enjoy.

Narrator: The son of Thomas Blunt of Company F and a widow who works to support herself.

Cordelia: A home was created from the wards of the soldiers

Narrator: Father was killed at Gravelly Run.

Cordelia: For babes and their siblings and some who were older.

Narrator: William T. Blunt died of convulsions in 1868.

Cordelia: From Superior to Janesville the children did come,

Narrator: Charles S. Thompson on one report and Johnson on another.

Cordelia: All without Dads and some without Moms.

Narrator: By one person called Charles, then Little Pennie, then Spencer.

Cordelia: There were hundreds of children whose names I recall.

Narrator: Six year old son of William H. Johnson, who died as he came home from Company E.

Cordelia: Dozens more came and that still was not all.

Narrator: Little Pennie fell from the third floor of the home, then lived one more year, to 1868.

Cordelia: With help they grew strong and morally upright

Narrator: Emma Bular, a child of eight and invalid girl . . .

Cordelia: As they came from the darkness into the light.

Narrator: . . . the daughter of Henry Bular of Company F.

Cordelia: And all but eight of them grew to adulthood.

Narrator: He died in battle at Baxter Spring, leaving a daughter and her brother without father or mother.

Cordelia: From ravages of war we had created some good.

Narrator: Emma Bular died after a long illness and decline, in 1870.

Narrator: The soldiers' orphans.

Cordelia: Still, I feel sorry for the eight children dead

And pray they find peace in Heaven's warm beds--

For I cannot help them now that they're gone.

I know I can't help them now that they're gone.

But I know that in Heaven there are no orphans.

I have faith that in Heaven there are no orphans.

JAMES GORHAM

Like most of us I was not necessarily the stuff of a soldier. I was a businessman, owner of the Spring Hotel, where my wife made the best sour cream cookies anywhere in the world. They were so good it probably increased our business by at least 50%. Anyway, I was not a soldier. I was a regular citizen. I was a dancer. Oh, did I like to dance. And I was farther along in years than most of the boys who enlisted when the hostilities broke out. Some of them really were just boys, especially compared to my 50 plus years. I was 50 when the war started. Age is just an excuse not to be young. I was still young at heart and, more important, duty called--so I responded.

Because I was a good aim I applied for service in the first sharpshooter regiment ever organized. It was one of the more highly regarded regiments during the war, Berdan's Sharpshooters, commanded by Hiram Berdan. He was an interesting man, both hated and admired. And even though many of his men found him irritating at times, most of the men were happy to be in the regiment that bore his name. We might have appreciated seeing him in battle a little more, but we acquitted ourselves very well with or without his presence.

A lot of people don't know anything about it now, but the Sharpshooters had quite a reputation back then. My friends and relatives heard the stories all the way back in Wisconsin. The regiment was known as "the passport to glory". But had they seen me in training the stories would have lost their glory. They would have laughed uproariously to see me at drills with my knapsack on, although I'm sure I looked no sillier than the other 600 of us that was there. The sacks were filled, about 25 pounds, and we drilled with overcoats on and a blanket strapped on the outside. It was hard work, and the army didn't feed us well enough to be making us do such things. But even tired and hungry we were colorful, with our green frock coats, light blue pants, white gloves, red-trimmed capes, and finally black plumes on our caps.

We started our service in New Jersey, then traveled to a camp about a mile from Washington, which wasn't a very handsome city at all. That was where we was drilled about eight hours a day, in preparation for action. Many of the townspeople came to watch us, not so much for the regular army drills as for the shooting, as the regiment was comprised of some of the best shooters the North had to offer. In fact, in order to become a member of the regiment we all had to pass a marksman test. Each man who desired to become a member of Berdan's Sharpshooters had to be able to put ten bullets in a row within five inches of the center of a target from a distance of 600 feet at rest or 300 feet off hand. Many failed. Some less than expert marksmen were allowed to sneak through, by captains who figured that with regular drills they would eventually be as good as those who did pass the test.

When we were first recruited we were told of bonuses, extra pay, and even to bring our own rifles. We were told that the federal government would pay us each $60 for their use. But because everyone liked a different kind of rifle, this caused problems with ammunition supply, so we never got paid for the rifles, and the government never fulfilled any of their other promises neither. Then, because of the ammo problems, they decided we would all get Sharps rifles, which Colonel Berdan preferred, but it seemed like we waited longer for those than we did for action. Finally, though, President Lincoln himself promised to provide the men with the Sharps rifles after seeing a firing demonstration by Colonel Berdan. I should tell you we were not named after the rifle. That was just a coincidence. Men like us were named sharpshooters long before the Sharps rifles were first made.

Once we got our rifles and got into action we was pretty good. As I said, at the time of the war stories about us abounded. They said a Confederate cannon at Yorktown was exploded by sharpshooters by knocking sand into its muzzle with our shooting. I didn't see it happen, but we were good. Probably the most famous of all was the reaction of General Wilcox at Pitzer's Woods in the struggles around Gettysburg. Our men fired off so many shots, about 95 rounds apiece, that he mistakenly reported that he was being attacked by two full regiments. Sometimes it felt like we fought as well as two full armies. We were often called upon for special duty and to do such things as sniping and skirmishing.

In some ways, Berdan was a genius. That kind of guerilla warfare was what we had been recruited to do, and it was a new approach at that time. But as a result, our losses were constant. So were the replacements. It was a regiment that volunteers wanted to belong to, because they had heard all the wonderful stories of our exploits. Really, we were not that much different than most regiments, but we did kill more than our fair share of the Rebels and we did take a pride in our regiment in a way that maybe other men didn't. Some say we killed more Rebs than anyone else. I think we may have. We definitely gave our all for the cause.

We were known to like fun too. We gave our all to that as well. Our commanders made it very difficult to get passes, but we would sneak into town and enjoy ourselves as men are wont to do, the younger men enjoying themselves in different ways than men like me. I sneaked into town mostly to do things like see the President or the White House. But all of us did make our time off the field as fun as can be during a war. When our supply of whiskey was cut off by commanding officers we became smugglers. In camp our primary form of recreation was to engage in shooting matches. We really did have some superior shooters in the regiment. One man got into trouble for shooting in camp and was spared discipline by showing that he had shot a squirrel right through the noggin. That incident summed us up pretty well I think--fun-loving, but deadly, and all of us young at heart.

DAVID ATWOOD

Early in my career I was the Chairman of the Whig state central committee. At the time there were slavery and anti-slavery factions in our party and there were many citizens actively organizing other parties around the slavery issue. By 1853 it had become clear to most of us that the Whig party was nearly dead. The only way that our goals could survive would be for us to join the Free Soilers and other abolitionists in unity against the Democrats. We knew that a great majority of people were opposed to the extension of slavery, but that the Democrats would surely continue to win elections as long as that majority remained split into factions. There came a time when it was abundantly evident that there was no use trying to keep up the old political parties. New combinations were inevitable, especially once Douglas proposed the Kansas-Nebraska Act, which opened the door for the extension of slavery by allowing the citizens of those two states to decide the matter for themselves. It was a disgraceful moment in our nation's history, but one that propelled the forces of history along in a way that all the rational discourse could never have done. As reprehensible as it was, it was a necessary evil. The act repealed the critical Missouri Compromise of 1820, which disallowed slavery in any of the Northern states.

Despite my position as a leader of the Whig party, or perhaps because of it, my newspaper, the Wisconsin State Journal, proposed "a union of men opposed to slavery should the Nebraska Bill become law." I was prepared to abandon my old party, along with many other men of the Whig and other parties, in order to create a new and more useful united party in its stead. Many of us knew then that a new coalition would be necessary if we were to defeat the pro-slavery forces. The law inevitably passed and thus was the Republican party born. It did not happen immediately, but it did happen, as we knew it would, and it welcomed all men, foreign-born or native, as members. It even surprised me how little time elapsed before Republicans were elected to a majority in the Wisconsin Legislature. That was followed by Abraham Lincoln's ascension to the Presidency as a Republican in 1860. I came into the Legislature that same year and was chosen Speaker pro tem of the Assembly. As you know it was only a year later that the War between the States began with the firing on Fort Sumter.

While I was commissioned a Major General of the state militia in 1858 I was already a 50 year old man by the time the war broke out. I supported it fully, but I was not young enough to fight for it with arms. Instead, I served my country patriotically through my political work and through the Wisconsin State Journal. If the pen can indeed by mightier than the sword, then a newspaper can be mightier than a battery of men, as it can work to dispassionately convince men to do that which is right, to fight for the greater good of all humanity; it can rally citizens around a cause; it can publicly expose the weaknesses of the enemies of a humane society.

In those days newspapers were able to make much more of a difference. Citizens often followed the lead of a respected editor. My childhood neighbor and friend, Horace Greeley, who supposedly gave the Republican party its name after hearing of the meeting in Ripon, was also a journalist. He had published anti-slavery articles for 20 years prior to the actual outbreak of hostilities between the two sections of the country. His words, little by little, had seeped into the nation's consciousness and had helped to awaken America to its sins. Though we had grown up on neighboring farms, though my entire line of ancestors had been men who worked with the soil, we somehow had both found the same calling, a life of newspapers and politics. I followed his famous advice, before he gave it, of going west to forge a career and a life.

The frontier appealed to me, though I was not long for the farm, and I was ever after amazed by the changes I saw wrought over the years, having witnessed the prairies when settlement had barely begun. I left my farm in Illinois, determined to create a newspaper. Wisconsin at the time was attempting to become a state, so it seemed an exciting place to try my hand. I arrived in Madison when there were only 800 residents and Wisconsin was still a year from statehood. I fell in love with the city of the lakes and immediately knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life in Wisconsin's capital city.

My first job was with the Whig newspaper, where I held every job there was to hold, from compositing to editing to reporting, at one time. As a result, though I had the good fortune to report on the territorial legislature and was present to witness and report on every minute of Wisconsin's Constitutional convention. Later, as the editor of my own newspaper, the only Republican organ in the capital, it was my duty to rally the citizenry around the Union once the war had started. I used all the power I had to raise money and troops for the Union cause. It was critical that the North should win the war and that slavery should come to an end. As a nation we had to put down the inequality and raise up the downtrodden. It was our sacred duty. As an editor I believed it was my sacred duty to show the people the way. As a man dedicated to justice it was my duty to lead.

JAMES REEVE STUART

My father died in 1840, when I was six years old, leaving my mother a widow at 28 with six children. Although he was only 32 years old when he died, he had been a member of the Legislature, Captain of the Beaufort Guards and Colonel of the State Militia on the old Establishment.

I don't remember the house where I was born. But I do remember very distinctly the window where the sun came peeping thro' at morn, on our old plantation, "Roupelmonde". The sun rose practically, for us, out of the Ocean. The house was on the Cousaw River, on the island of Port Royal, ten miles from the town of Beaufort. My memories of that time of my life centre a good deal around the fireplace. For it was there at night in our nursery, before we went to bed, that we sat with Dorcas, a girl of 15, and listened to the stories of Brer Rabbit and Brer Wolf. It was a wonderfully secure life, that old Plantation life in the days of Slavery.

No one ever used the name of slave then. They were "the negroes" or "our people". They were a part of us. The planters never lived on their plantations in the summer, on account of the malaria. As boys we spent only two months in the country, December and April. Sometimes in April, Uncle John took us fishing in the "Eliza Woodward" down on Port Royal harbor. This big boat was used between my Grandfather's several plantations, among them, the main one, Coosaw Island. This island of 3000 acres was twelve miles from our plantation down Coosaw river just where it widened into St. Helena Sound.

But December was the month of the year for us, with guns, dogs and horses. And Christmas was the culmination of it. It was the year's jubilee also for the negroes. They had then a holy day of three days, besides Christmas, when they were free to go where they would. They visited freely on the neighboring plantations. Nearly half of our people would go away and their places be filled by others, relatives of those on our place. They gathered together in the largest house and held religious services, some who could read, reading chapters from the New Testament and giving out the Hymns. Afterward began the shouting, a kind of holy dance, one of them, generally a woman, standing in a corner and singing the refrain, while the others shuffled around clapping their hands and shouting the chorus. The effect of this mass of black people sliding, swinging, and dancing around and around and the volume of the sound rolling up from so many voices, the shrill treble of the women and the bellowing of the men, was indescribable. I can recall much of this music as being really beautiful in its way.

I can remember Old Daddy Moses, our old house servant, had a clear sweet baritone voice. He had grown up with my father and uncles as a boy. And the family was as true to us as steel. All thro' the war of Secession, two of his nephews were with my mother and each of us four brothers had one of his grandnephews in the field with us as body servants. They remained true to us also after the war for more than a year, in fact, as long as we could have them under the new conditions.

But to go back. I left school to go to College in 1852. I was then 18 years old. There was a clean broad wall in my room and some good charcoal in the open wood fireplace. The temptation was strong, so I made some big cartoons on it, my own conceptions--Milton's falling Archangel and a mailed horseman. My chum, Bill Allan, showed these to D'Alphonse, who taught athletics, drawing and French. He was very enthusiastic and lent me some models to copy. This was the first instruction I had ever had in drawing, altho' I had drawn as early as I can remember.

I went North to Harvard and entered the Scientific School. I was in Harvard for two years. It was in Boston that I was first in a studio. Pinkney Alston, my friend, asked my why I did not get my Uncle to give me a letter of introduction. And I did so. I called on Mr. Winthrop with the letter and he took me over at once to the studio of Joseph Ames. Ames did not want a pupil, but he let me put an easel in his outer room. He gave me a hint on the true principle of color upon which all my work all my life has been based.

There are no secrets in color--only find those that will not fade. There are three primitive colors, those of the prism, blue, red, yellow, with black for dark and white for light. Study the object carefully and mix the tint with brush and lay it on. That is all. My bent towards Art continued stronger than ever. Whatever my employment I found time to draw. I had saved enough from my salary to take me to Europe and keep me for a year there. So I decided to go. When we reached Karlsruhe, I found that there was an excellent Art School there, so I settled down for the winter. I remained in Karlsruhe all winter until the Spring.

The troubles at home meanwhile had been brewing. Sumter was fired on and captured. So I packed up and left for America. When I got there, I found that our Artillery Company was already enrolled and in camp. My brothers and all of my friends were there. In fact, there was no one in town but women and children and old men and the negroes. And this was the condition of all of the towns in the South all through the war. The whole male population was in the army.

I joined the company that was camped down at Bay Point on Port Royal Harbor. Several times during the next three years the enemy landed forces, once crossing the Port Royal Ferry. One of our guns threw some shells into our old residence to drive out the picket stationed there. The old house was soon in ruins and from time to time, when we happened to be opposite, we could see the fragments disappear, being used by the pickets for firewood. The last time that I was there the very bricks of the chimneys of the house were gone.

On McKay's Point my brother Middleton was shot through the arm and got a furlough. At Averysboro, N. C., we fought to protect our baggage train. My brother Henry was killed there and buried on the field by the enemy. We retreated thro' Raleigh to Greensboro. At Raleigh, we heard of Lee's surrender. At Greensboro, we halted to treat with Sherman and within a week disbanded under parole and returned to our families. I went into Augusta, Georgia, and opened a studio and, queer enough, made about $1500 in six months. But everything was going to confusion and ruin. At the end of the year we all went down to our old place, Beaufort, S. C. The place swarmed with carpetbaggers.and negroes. Our own homes stood there, but in the hands of others. A few places and town houses were brought in by their former owners. But most of them were sold in small lots to negroes and carpetbaggers.

I decided to move to St. Louis in 1868. I found work and friends in St. Louis, but it was the most uncomfortable place I ever lived in. In 1872, I came up to Madison. I was fascinated by the place, so returned to St. Louis, went from there home to Carolina to see my mother, then early in January, 1873, I came back to Madison and have never been sorry for it for a moment.

HARRIET MORRIS

In the distance between the battlegrounds of the war and our homes here in Madison news sometimes traveled slowly. We would hear of victories and defeats well after they had happened. From day to day it was sometimes difficult to tell which way the war was swinging. Often there was uncertainty about ultimate victory. But the one constant bit of news, the thing that could be counted upon no matter which way the fortunes of war were going, was that our sons and brothers and neighbors did suffer. We would hear news of hunger and disease, discomfort on the field and in the hospitals and prisons, and we knew that we could not sit idly by while our men were in need.

As a result women banded together and knitted or sewed and did whatever else they could for the troops. We later formed what were known as Ladies' Aid Societies to help with the war effort. These societies sprung up in every state, with the purpose of providing what succor we could for our boys. In Madison, ours was an auxiliary to the North-Western branch of the Sanitary Commission. I cannot tell you how many letters I wrote to men in hospitals, trying to give them words of encouragement, how many articles of clothing were collected and sent South, how many sacks of potatoes and other food were gathered and dispatched. Can you imagine lying in a hospital bed hundreds of miles from home with no words of encouragement? I could not and so I wrote the letters. You may wonder what encouragement could be given to men lying in pain or near death's door, but I know the men appreciated the letters. They always wrote back, so graciously, and told us how much they appreciated hearing from someone. Many women worked tirelessly to write letters to the men, to raise money, to collect items to send to them, to organize shipments, sometimes to visit them in hospital. Even children did what they could to help with the effort.

It was very difficult and tiring work, especially for women of means who were not accustomed to labor. But Christian charity cried out. Often I felt like I was not laboring hard enough when I would receive a letter from a man telling me that he was not well because gangrene had gotten into his wound and that his suffering was beyond human endurance. Beyond human endurance--and yet he somehow endured. You knew that he meant it and you knew, reading between the lines, that eventually he would lose his leg even if we won the war and you wondered what life he would have when it was over. It caused you to pause and to think. What paltry contribution was a letter or a bit of fruit in relation to that? But we all do what we can do.

When I had those days during which I thought that I could not continue in my duties with the Aid Society I would pull out a soldier's letter or two to steel my spirit. Listen to this and then tell me that after reading it you could not continue your work. "I received yours of August the ninth, but have not been able to answer it before. I have been truly sick with my wound but am recovering very fast. I can walk all around the room on crutches. The Doctor says I will have a stiff leg for life. That is nothing. I am willing to lose both to restore the old Union as it was. We will have it."

What faith, determination and spirit were displayed in a letter like that. How could I not be moved to continue my work when confronted with that young man's letter thanking me for what I had done? Certainly, as President of the Aid Society, it was even more important for me to continue to work hard and be an example for all the new members. Fortunately, the organization of the Society was such that all of our jobs were made easier. We were as organized as any successful business in the state, with a President, Vice-Presidents, secretary, treasurer, committees and chairs. The work was divided, so that there were committees that performed certain tasks. The businessmen still at home were supportive of our cause and generously donated both money and services. Money was being made in the North at that time. Railroads transported our packages at no charge. Newspapers carried stories. Businesses offered meeting space. Alert Clubs were formed with young women for the sole purpose of raising money to further our work. With all that assistance we were able to prepare thousands of bandages, bales of lint, clothing, quilts, and blankets. Often a cheerful message was put on the quilts. We also sent along boxes upon boxes of meats, pastries, jellies and other foods, along with newspapers, books and more.

Sometimes we would receive a letter thanking us for our work but informing us that in some instances the articles that were sent were eaten or used before they ever got down the line of authority to the soldiers on the front lines or in the hospitals who really needed them. Seeing the generosity at home and the resilience and determination of the cavalry on the field and knowing that there were those with so little generosity of spirit that they would take for themselves items intended for the soldiers was terribly disheartening. Sometimes that knowledge, too, would make a person pause and question whether all the work and trouble was worth the effort, especially if one believed the intentions of the work were not being realized. Regardless, I believed that a person should do what they could to alleviate the pain and suffering. If one or two or even three out of ten boxes did not get to its destination that meant that seven, eight, or nine did.

We did help countless soldiers during the years of the war. I received many a letter from individual men that confirmed for me that much of our assistance reached the men it was supposed to reach and that much of our encouragement was valued. As one Wisconsin soldier wrote, "I am very proud of the compliment you gave our Regiment, for we have always tried to do our duty and I am much prouder of our kind and good ladies of Wisconsin. May God spare them all to see this war subdued. So, good-bye. May God spare you long for your kindness to the soldiers." We did what we could, and if our efforts did not bring a quicker end to the war they at least brought a deeper comfort for its duration. I hold the evidence of that in my hand.

BENJAMIN BUTTS

When you're an 11-year old boy you are curious about everything. Especially when confronted with hundreds of men in colorful uniforms and big, beautiful horses. Did you ever hear of a boy who didn't like horses? Ever? No, boys are the same now as they always have been, and they are the same whether they are black or white. So I was excited when Union troops came into my town of Petersburg, Virginia back in 1864. Every boy in town was excited by their presence and I was no different than others my age.

It had been about a year before the troops arrived in town that President Lincoln had freed our people with the Emancipation Proclamation. But everyone knew the proclamation was meaningless as long as a place was under control of the Rebels. The arrival of the Union troops finally put us under the control of the North and effectively freed all the slaves in that part of the state. Everything was in confusion at the time, with white Southerners having lost their town, Northern troops all over the place, and black people having just been freed. I didn't understand much of what was happening then. I only knew my parents seemed both overjoyed and confused. They were happy about emancipation, but nobody really knew what it meant. Nobody knew what they were supposed to do after gaining freedom. At least on the plantations you were certain of being fed and having a roof over your head. After freedom came we didn't know if we could stay where we had been living, if we had to leave, or what.

I'm not saying the proclamation shouldn't have happened or that we should go back, though I think some of my people did believe that. Many of them continued right on in their service with their masters. I'm just saying that no one had a clue about how to proceed, how to handle their new-found freedom. Many families decided to leave. They wanted to get as far away as possible and put their lives of slavery behind them. The soldiers who had marched into our town and the North they represented seemed to welcome us, so many of us chose to go north.

I was awestruck by those troops. The 5th Wisconsin Battery, which I took to, was one of the groups that marched with Sherman to Atlanta and then back up through the Carolinas. They seemed larger than life to me. I imagined all the daring deeds they must have performed on the field. I dreamed of myself mounted on one of their beautiful horses and riding into battle with them, perhaps carrying the United States flag for them. Looking back I imagine I may have been quite a pest for the soldiers. I spent every possible minute around the camp, and especially around the officers' quarters. The officers had the most interesting uniforms, with the most colorful ribbons and medals.

One day Colonel Allen of Oshkosh took notice of me. He asked my name and I told him Bennie Butts. He didn't ask much else and I thought I might be in trouble for something. He must have seen me admiring the horses. I don't know. Maybe he thought my parents had been lost in the war, or maybe he felt that as free people with no livelihood they would not be able to take care of me. What was going on his mind I don't pretend to know. But he asked me if I'd like to go with him and hold his horse when there was a chance. I don't know exactly what was going through my mind either, but the prospect was exciting. I couldn't believe the turn of fate. I imagined myself as the bravest little soldier, whose job it was to hold the Colonel's horse for him. The prospect was exciting and it seemed an honor for a Negro boy like me to be asked to do something that important. It was as if he hadn't noticed I was colored. The responsibility was awesome to me. Being 11 I gave no thought to the future, or where we were going. I simply said yes, without telling my parents, and left with the 5th when they next moved north.

At that age, I didn't realize just how far I would be going with them or for how long or how long it might be before I could return. I didn't think about how worried my parents would be. I just went because it seemed like the right thing to do. For the next year I acted as the mascot of the regiment. While some of the men didn't always treat me the best most of them looked out for me. They adopted me as their own. I marched with them for about a year and when the war ended the regiment determined to take me home with them.

After arriving in Madison a couple of them took me to Richland Center and got me a job. I was 12 then. A year later I came back to Madison and found a job as a porter. Right after the war black men worked only menial jobs for little pay, usually as servants or laborers. It was servitude with pay, though you were free to go your own way after work. You were free to marry and not be afraid of the family being separated. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than plantation slavery, even for those of us whose white owners treated us well. Freedom was worth the labor.

If you were ambitious you might try to advance into something a little more lucrative. That was why I later studied barbering when I wasn't working. In my later years I cut the hair and shaved the faces of most of the more notable leaders of Wisconsin, including half a dozen governors. I counted them among my best customers. Besides that I acted as the official doorman for every major function in the city for many years, being the one to greet such men as Ulysses Grant and President Cleveland when they visited the Vilas home. I knew the early history of Madison well, having come here in 1865, having lived downtown, and having worked for many famous men. Like being asked to hold the Colonel's horse I accepted all the duties and positions I held as an honor and a sign of the trust those men placed in me. I believe that I became a respected and well-liked citizen, even as a young man. I don't believe that could have happened without Abraham Lincoln, without the Civil War, or without the 5th bringing me home. This did become my true home and my chosen place of final rest. I would never go back.

FRANCES (BULL) FAIRCHILD

My husband lost his arm in the Civil War, in the Battle of Gettysburg. I was still a young woman when I first met Lucius Fairchild, an age at which I was easily impressed with the uniforms and regalia of the brave men of the Union army. Beyond the outer trappings I could see that he was a man of intelligence and grace and fairness. I did not know when we met that we would marry or that my life with him would take me so many places, from the Governor's office to the court of Spain, or through so many experiences, from hosting such distinguished men as Teddy Roosevelt to the battle for women's suffrage.

He had resigned as an officer about half a year before we married and had by then been appointed Wisconsin's Secretary of State. Throughout his life the general had an active career filled with many important positions. As you can see, my husband never let the loss of his arm prevent him from making an impact on the world and we both knew that he was not the only one who suffered in the war. Many other men lost their limbs or their lives in the valiant struggle to preserve the Union. I knew that first hand.

I saw a great deal of pain and suffering. Like many young women of the time my effort in the cause was to visit hospitals and comfort the wounded and dying, to take them treats and bring them what cheer we could. My sisters and I were often invited to the officers' mess to dine with some of the soldiers. Many women met their husbands that way. General Fairchild and I married before the war was over. Looking back I realize it had been a hard time for all of us, but necessary nonetheless. Without it the Union would have been lost and the evil institution of slavery would have continued to flourish much longer before its ultimate demise. Without it, some unexpected realizations would have taken longer to occur to my husband, myself, and other suffragist leaders.

You see, after the war was over we had cause to reflect upon what we had gained. Yes, the Union had been preserved and the Southern slaves had earned their freedom and those, I strongly believed, were good things. The unexpected result, however, was that for some of us, it caused us to think further about what had not yet been gained. It caused us to question some basic values in the society we had fought so hard to save. While uneducated Negro men had been given freedom and the right to vote, well-educated and refined women were still denied the franchise, along with male idiots, male felons, and tribal Indians. My husband and I both recognized the inequality of this at an early time. In fact, he and another veteran, General E. E. Bryant, organized the first suffragette meeting in Madison, from which the Wisconsin Woman's Suffrage Association was born. That meeting, however, wasn't even until 1882, more than 15 years after the war had ended, and more than twice that since Wisconsin had become a state.

In the original state constitution, written only a dozen years before the Civil War, women did not even have the right to own property, although that was remedied in 1850. But it seemed to us immediately after the war that there was another form of slavery that needed fixing--that of the woman to the home, of the wife to subservience. For me, it was not that I resented the traditional women's duties. In humility I can claim to have been a kind and attentive hostess. Countless letters of thanks attest to this. And I faithfully followed my husband in all of his various posts, from his appointment as Wisconsin's Secretary of State, through the governorship, to his positions as a representative of the United States government in England, France, and Spain. I believe also that I executed my duties as a mother as well as anyone could. I enjoyed all the usual women's societies and book clubs. I enjoyed my life at my husband's side.

Still, I always knew that in some ways I was my husband's equal. The Constitution of the United States talked of governing with the consent of the governed. Yet we women, who were as governed as the men, if not more so, were denied the right to help determine who would govern us. Many articles and orators of the time claimed that as voters we might vote with emotion rather than intelligence, that the demand for equality at the polls was frivolous. Needless to say I believe that the arguments for suffrage were much stronger and more humane. And while I don't believe there is anything wrong with letting emotions help one decide what to do in given circumstances I also believe that women can be as dispassionate and critical as men when necessary.

In my own life I had an example of that which I think illustrates that women can be as objective and decisive as their male counterparts. It was at the time of the Chicago fire. My husband, who was Governor at the time, and all of his officers, had gone to Illinois to try to determine what could be done to assist the citizens of that city. While they were there news came of the Peshtigo fire in northern Wisconsin, a fire that caused far more damage and loss of life than the Great Chicago Fire, but which was largely ignored as it was in a rural area of our fair state. Now, I don't say this to bring attention or acclaim to myself, but I believe that I acted quickly and decisively to assist our own citizens in the north. Immediately upon hearing of the devastation at Peshtigo I ordered a train to travel there, loaded with clothing and supplies for the citizens. Perhaps I had no right to make such a decision, but the Governor and all his men were out of state and something had to be done at that moment. I acted, and I believe it offers some small proof that women have the capability of making decisions as rationally and effectively as men.

Around that time I also saw that other women were involved in important positions at which they excelled. Another Wisconsin First Lady, Cordelia Harvey, was a good example of that. After her husband's untimely death she was given an appointment to take over his work of inspecting Union hospitals in the South. The enormity of the War between the States compelled many women to act in new and unfamiliar roles. We not only continued to attend to our traditional roles and to the new task of tending to the countless sick and dying, but also of necessity served on committees and commissions, ran our husbands' stores and farms while they were gone and in general did all kinds of work toward the war effort, both at home and in the field.

Ultimately, while the war was fought for Negro freedom and the preservation of the Union, it also had the effect of making women realize the possibility of other roles and to point out the disparities that existed between men and women in our society. It made us realize how unfair some of those disparities were. It gave us the confidence to know that there were many things that we could do that we had been told we could not do. While the vote would not come for many a year, I believe that the war pointed out to both men and women that it must come at some time. I doubt that many of the men who first led us into that war realized that it would ultimately have that effect, but you can't tell women that they must work for the war and then tell them afterwards their place is in the home. You can't ask women to lead during the war and then tell them they can't even help choose the leaders after the war. It's silly to think you could.

WILLIAM & ANNA VILAS

WILLIAM: I was still a young man when the war started. I had graduated Albany Law School in 1860 and had been practicing at the bar for about a year when the hostilities broke out. I, William Vilas, was already a practicing attorney at the age of 20. Like any young man just embarking upon a career the last thing I wanted was to put my ambitions on hold, leave my home and family, and head into the uncertainty of war. Yet I could not fail to do what I believed to be right. I could not fail to answer the call to service for my country. The people's hearts will follow when the magnet is true.

ANNA: My husband was always a conscientious man, one who would do the right thing without regard for the possible consequences.

WILLIAM: It was not that I did not think about the consequences, the possibility of dying or returning a disabled man, the fear of not being able to continue on my life's path where I left it off. It was that, regardless of the possible outcomes, one has to look inside oneself and with conscience as a guide pursue the right course. The sin of slavery had to be purged, the crime of secession had to be punished, and the chained man's sorrows had to be ended. I felt that my country needed me and I responded by raising a company of men and serving with the 23rd Wisconsin.

ANNA: He needn't have feared for his career, as he was such an able man that it simply continued where he left it off after he returned from the war.

WILLIAM: What Anna never realized was that there was no guarantee that everything would return to normal, or even that anyone would come back.

ANNA: It always seemed to me that William never failed in anything he did. He had graduated at the top of his university class; had finished his law studies and immediately become a partner in a Madison firm after returning home; was commissioned a Captain after the war broke out; and was present for the siege of Vicksburg, one of the most critical turns of the war.

WILLIAM: My wife always believed me to be more powerful than I was. She would like to think that I held the city myself.

ANNA: I had a statue of him erected on the battleground.

WILLIAM: There were thousands upon thousands of men engaged in that siege. Some say there were 10,000 casualties on each side. It was an incredible military stroke on the part of General Grant. He snuck around to the Confederates' backside, split their army and then laid siege to the city for two months before they finally surrendered, ironically on the Fourth of July. It was the day after the Battle of Gettysburg had ended. Together Gettysburg, which turned the tide in the North, and Vicksburg, which gave the West to the Union, were two of the most decisive engagements of the entire war.

ANNA: He was promoted after that. He became a major and then a lieutenant-colonel. They gave him his own regiment.

WILLIAM: Many were promoted as many died. I served to the best of my ability for my country.

ANNA: After his military service ended his life did continue as successfully as it had been before the war--starting, I must say, with his marriage in 1866. It never hurts for an aspiring young lawyer to marry the daughter of a prominent doctor in the county.

WILLIAM (smiling): And also the daughter of a man who was a member of Wisconsin's Constitutional convention in 1847. But no, a gentleman does not marry a woman's father, any more than he would fail to serve his country for fear of his future. One does not make such heavy decisions so lightly. I would say that I was simply blessed in both my professional and personal life.

ANNA: He worked hard for everything he got.

WILLIAM: I always believed that hard work and diligence were necessary elements of success.

ANNA: Unlike the favor seekers who inundated him when he became the Postmaster General.

WILLIAM: Oh, yes. You have to understand, though, that it was during President Cleveland's term of office. It was a time in our history, regardless of which party was in power, when every potential office seeker wrote, pleaded, begged, and cajoled anyone who might be in a position of power in an attempt to secure a position with the government. I cannot count how many letters I received begging for appointments in the tax department, in foreign embassies, in any capacity . . .

ANNA: . . . including postal positions.

WILLIAM: Yes. They always mentioned their years of dedicated service to the party and the positions did have to be filled, but I always believed the country would be better off without such patronage.

ANNA: William was always a generous man, but you couldn't possibly help everyone who asked. He wanted to do what he could to help people. He was a Democrat through and through in that way. He believed in the party and what it stood for then.

WILLIAM: I did.

ANNA: He summed up the party eloquently at the convention that nominated Cleveland to the Presidency.

WILLIAM: I looked backward to define the present. I reminded the hall about the legacy of Jefferson, Madison and Jackson. I noted that, like in their time, it was again the party of the people, the party for the generous diffusion of knowledge, the elevation of every man, for common rights and equal opportunities to all, the resolute enemy of monopoly, of class favoritism, and corporate oppression, the friend of labor, the inspiration of youth, the nursery of freemen.

ANNA: His speech, and his capabilities as a leader, helped him secure the position in Cleveland's Cabinet. He was one of the most noted orators of his time.

WILLIAM: I liked to talk.

ANNA: And he acted as humble as he was generous.

WILLIAM: We were materially blessed and believed in sharing our fortune. That is why we bequeathed money to the University to build whatever was needed when it reached 30 million dollars. Anna was the same as I, though she wouldn't tell you herself. She gave money to many causes--the YWCA, the YMCA, General Hospital, the park, and more.

ANNA: It was Vilas money that built Madison's Vilas Zoo. Many people don't know it but the zoo was not named for the person who gave the money, but after our son, Henry, who died at too young an age. William loved his children more than anything. He spoiled them so, but he did it out of love. If you could read his letters to them you would know. They gush forth with love and caring and concern. Even when he became a Senator he took the time to write as often as he could.

WILLIAM: We always hoped our children would turn out well. I did my best to attend to that.

ANNA: Sometimes what you hope for cannot come to pass. Buddie died at seven years of age, Henry at only 27 and Nellie at 25. As a mother the hurt never leaves you.

WILLIAM: Nor as a father. I would gladly lay siege to Vicksburg again to get them back. I would gladly give up all my positions and wealth. Instead, I can only use what power, influence and money I have to create monuments so that at least they won't be forgotten. I think the true battles in life are not the Vicksburgs that come with war, but the daily struggles we must overcome, those difficult moments that God throws at us to test our mettle and our faith. These are the things that define a man.

ANNA: And a woman.

WILLIAM: A father.

ANNA: And a mother.

WILLIAM: We raise the standard and carry on.

ANNA: For our children.

THE CHAPMANS

JUNIOR: My father and I were both named Chandler Chapman. He was Chandler B. Chapman and I Chandler P. Chapman. At one time both of us were members of Wisconsin's proudest contingent of men in the War Between the States, the Iron Brigade.

SENIOR: For part of the war I was the surgeon for the brigade. Later I served as the medical director for the Army of the Rio Grande, a much less demanding position.

JUNIOR: I enlisted in the 6th Wisconsin Regiment and served as a hospital steward under my father, until I was discharged.

SENIOR: One of countless men sent home with disabilities.

JUNIOR: The Iron Brigade took a pounding throughout the war.

SENIOR: You have to understand that the valorous men of that brigade suffered terribly. It was the one federal brigade with the highest percentage of casualties in the entire war.

JUNIOR: Fully two-thirds of the brigade died at McPherson's and Cemetery Ridges in the Battle of Gettysburg. The second regiment sustained the highest casualties, but even my regiment, the sixth, lost around twenty percent of its men.

SENIOR: The second lost three quarters of its men at Gettysburg.

JUNIOR: There were times during which it felt impossible to continue.

SENIOR: It was very difficult. We had minimal equipment, generally only four medical cases furnished by the government.

JUNIOR: And whatever an orderly could carry in his knapsack.

SENIOR: We had very few drugs and anesthesia was almost unheard of in those days.

JUNIOR: And due to the heat of battle and the high rate of casualties there was generally no time for the cleanliness that was needed. Surgical tools often were not disinfected before being used again and served to spread disease further.

SENIOR: Among troops already ravaged, as much by disease as injury. The various diseases that attacked the troops were as deadly as the enemy. But there was no time. We had only to act. Most days I was not able to retire until well after dark.

JUNIOR: During the worst battles dozens of men would be brought in at one time. It continued throughout the day and into the night.

SENIOR: Some of them could not be moved. In those cases we had to go to them. Oftentimes the most horrifying and gruesome operations had to be performed right on the front line, in the midst of battle.

JUNIOR: Usually amputations. Most of the surgeries performed were amputations.

SENIOR: Given the conditions there should have actually been more casualties. We saved as many as we could. It was the most difficult of times. The remainder of my medical career, as a civilian, was nothing compared to what I endured in the war.

JUNIOR: It was the same with me in my later work with the National Guard. Nothing seemed difficult after the war.

SENIOR: But we did what we had to do.

JUNIOR: And we would do it again if necessary.

SENIOR: Yes, the cause was worth the fight. Later there would be rest. For the sake of the Union and the end of slavery it was worth the struggle and the horror.

JUNIOR: Never was there more of an abolitionist than my father. If the Union had not needed him as a surgeon I am sure he would have taken up arms in whatever capacity the army commissioned him. Both of us were firm in our belief that the slavery had to be abolished.

SENIOR: We did what we felt morally had to be done. Certainly there can be no argument that the institution of slavery was an evil cancer upon our noble country. Like a tumor destroying one's body, it needed to be removed for the health of the nation.

JUNIOR: Yet the slaveholders and the politicians justified it.

SENIOR: Somehow, terribly, the Southern ministers began to find arguments in the Bible to support their cause, and thus added strength to the claims of the statesmen. As a Christian man, a Presbyterian, I found their justifications reprehensible, but the tactic worked. Having such high sanction the Southern people became intolerant toward all who did not praise the institution.

JUNIOR: Father, especially, spoke out strongly against slavery. He read a great deal about the issue and armed himself with moral arguments that to my mind could not be properly debated.

SENIOR: It was my religious beliefs, as much as anything, that led to my abolitionist sentiments. I have always believed in the Christian way.

JUNIOR: He also believed that emancipation was slavery's own act.

SENIOR: I did. Lincoln only resorted to the Emancipation Proclamation after months of patiently waiting for the South to return to their allegiance, but they refused. They created the stern necessity of the proclamation and the war, and on them the hand fell rapid and heavy until the vile blot was wiped out from our country.

JUNIOR: It was their own doing. Upon them was the blame of their own suffering.

SENIOR: And the blame for the all the men who lost limb or life for the cause of ending human bondage.

JUNIOR: There never was a greater day in the history of this country than when Lincoln proclaimed the end of slavery.

SENIOR: Unless it be the day the South capitulated and the proclamation became a reality.

JUNIOR: Everyone rejoiced when it was finally over.

SENIOR: After the war we both fared well as civilians. Despite our successes, however, the experience of war never leaves you. The significant event of our time, and of our lives, was the Civil War.

JUNIOR: And once a soldier, always a soldier. War cannot be left on the battlefield, especially when service was with one of the most famed brigades in history. The experiences never leave you.

SENIOR: Chandler became known as the "Father of Wisconsin National Guard" for the way he reorganized the guard. After the war he designed the monument that stands on the Gettysburg battlefield in remembrance of the Iron Brigade.

JUNIOR: I believe that without the sacrifices of the Iron Brigade the tide of war may have turned the other way.

SENIOR: And that, history could not have endured. Perhaps we could have survived the separation of America into two distinct countries, but once emancipation was declared, once the war also became about the freedom and rights of an entire class of people, then the North had to win, not only for the Union, but for the world, not only for history, but for time immemorial.