So this was Lincoln—the man whom, lately, Rhett Bannister had hated above all other living men, at whose door he had laid all the woes and wounds and spilled blood of the nation. Awkward, indeed, he was, with gnarled features, ungainly limbs, and shambling gait. All this Bannister had expected to see. But where was the domineering air, the crafty expression, the pride of power, the ingrained coarseness, for which he had also looked? In that ungraceful form he could see now only the human frame bending under the weight of a mighty responsibility. In the furrowed face, drawn and ashy, and eloquent with suffering and care, in the deep-set, patient eyes, signals of a soul weighed down with sorrow, he could read now only the story of a life untouched by selfishness, of a heart breaking with the burdens and pierced with the griefs of a mighty and beloved nation.

And with the vision of this man before him, so intensely human, so pleadingly simple, Rhett Bannister felt slipping away from him the old hate and scorn and enmity, and into their places came creeping pity for the man, reverence for his sorrow, sympathy with him in the awful burden he was bearing on his bent shoulders and in his mighty heart, the problems, griefs, and cares of his brothers, North and South, engaged in fratricidal strife. It was all in a moment. It followed one look into that infinitely sad and tender face, but in that moment the tide of feeling in Rhett Bannister’s mind and heart had turned. Abraham Lincoln was no longer the hated monster of other days, but a man, instead, of like passions, cares, griefs, and hopes with himself; a man to whom it was no humiliation to speak; nay, a man to whom he would dare to appeal in behalf of his son and himself, assured in advance of an honest and sympathetic hearing.

And what was it that Captain Yohe had said?

Bannister uncovered his head, and moved to the side of the path to let the Chief Magistrate by. And, even as he did so, there arose in his heart, and issued from his lips, an appeal which, one week before, he would have scorned to make.

“Mr. President,” he said, “this meeting is by chance, but I beg that you will grant me one moment to hear my case.”

The President stopped and cast a look of sad inquiry on the man who had accosted him. Doubtless, he thought, here was another father come to plead for the life of a son who had been sentenced to a disgraceful death. For what offense this time? Cowardice, desertion, sleeping at his post, or some other crime for which stern war demands stern penalties? They were so common in those days, appeals from fathers, mothers, wives, sweethearts; and the tender heart of Lincoln was daily pierced with them.

“Well?” He braced himself mentally, to listen to some new and agonizing tale of trouble.

“I will be frank with you, Mr. President,” Bannister hurried on, “and brief. I am a Pennsylvanian. I am what is called a copperhead. A few weeks ago I was drafted. I refused to report for service. I have an only son, just passed seventeen, who is as ardent a supporter of the Union cause as I am a detractor of it. Without my knowledge he visited the provost-marshal of the district and asked to go as a substitute in my place. His request being denied, he enlisted. That was four days ago. He is now in Meade’s army in Virginia. Yesterday I left my home, hoping to reach him where he is and induce the officer of his regiment to discharge him and take me in his place. Before I was twenty miles on my journey I was arrested as a deserter. The provost-marshal sent me for condemnation and sentence to the regiment to which, as a drafted man, I had been assigned. Less than an hour ago I reached Washington. My guards were drunk and asleep. I walked away from them and came here. It is by the merest chance that I now meet you. My boy is too young to withstand the rigors and hardships of the service. He should be back home with his mother. I want to take his place in the ranks. Mr. President, I cannot hope to do this unless you will help me.”

For a moment the President stood, looking into the eyes of the speaker. Here was a new and novel case. It aroused his interest. It appealed to his humanity.

“Come,” he said, “let’s go over to the telegraph office. It’s too cold to stand here. I was going there anyway. It’s all right,” he added to two guards who had hurried up. “I want to talk to this man. He’s going over to the telegraph office with me.”

So the lank, angular, shawl-clad figure moved on down the path, followed by the escaped conscript, while he in turn was followed by the two guards, who watched his every movement. A suspicion entered Bannister’s mind as he walked, that the President was leading him into ambush to procure the more easily his re-arrest. The re-arrest did not much matter. But that any one, after looking into this man’s face, should think of charging him with duplicity, that did matter. And the next moment the suspicion was effectually cast out.

They went up the steps leading to the War Department, and into the telegraph office which was installed there. Lincoln asked for dispatches left for him by Major Eckert, and read them over carefully. Some of them he read twice. The inactivity of the Army of the Potomac, the apparent inability of Meade to strike a telling, if not a final blow, weighed heavily on his mind. He had come over, as was his custom, in the early morning, to get and read, at first-hand, dispatches from the front. When he finally laid down the yellow slips he beckoned to Bannister to follow him.

“We’ll go into Stanton’s room,” he said; “he won’t be here for an hour yet.”

So they sat down together in the room ordinarily occupied by the Secretary of War. In the outer office the telegraph instruments kept up a monotonous clicking. Through the open door between the rooms messengers could be seen passing hurriedly in and out. Lincoln stretched his long legs out in front of him and ran his fingers through his carelessly combed hair.

“So you got away from your guards, did you?” he inquired. “Did you say they were drunk?”

“Yes, Mr. President, very drunk. They procured whiskey and drank a great deal on the train coming down to Washington. When I left the car this morning they were sound asleep.”

“What are their names? To what command are they attached?”

“I do not know. My name is Rhett Bannister, and my home is at Mount Hermon in Pennsylvania.”

“I see.”

The President rose, went out into the telegraph office, and dictated a message. When he returned and sat down again he said:—

“I’ve sent out orders to have those men hunted up, arrested, and remanded for trial. The soldier on duty who shows cowardice in the face of the enemy may have some excuse for his conduct. But the soldier on duty who shows cowardice in the face of John Barleycorn must reap the full reward of his cowardice.”

He set his lips tightly together, and let his clenched hand fall on the table-top. After a moment he continued:—

“So you are what they call up in Pennsylvania a copperhead?”

“I have been so designated, Mr. President.”

“Yes. Well, now, I’ve been wanting to see some of you copperheads and talk with you, and find out from you, if I can, why you oppose the war, and seek opportunities to stab the administration in the back. I’ve been wanting to know. Maybe this meeting is providential. Maybe I can learn something from you that will help us all. I’ve never run across one of you before, face to face, like this. Vallandigham’s the only one I know much about, and he’s so fiery and oratorical I can’t quite get head or tail to what he says. What is your creed, anyway?”

“I can speak for myself only, Mr. President. I am of Southern birth and breeding. My sympathies lie entirely with the South. I feel that they were right on every issue between them and the abolitionists and radicals of the North. I feel that they had just cause to secede from the compact formed by the states, and to set up a government of their own which should be in accord with their views and policies. I feel that the attempt to coerce them was unjust and tyrannical. I feel that the war, on the part of the North, has been and is an awful mistake, criminal in many of its aspects. Feeling that way, I have done all that lay in my power, from my home in the North, openly, and I believe honorably, to oppose the war, and to weaken the power of your administration. I speak frankly because you have asked me for my views.”

“That’s right; that’s right. That’s what I want to know. We must be honest with each other. Now, don’t you think the Union, as it was, was a splendid aggregation of states?”

“Yes, Mr. Lincoln, I do.”

“And don’t you think the Union, restored as it was, would be a still more splendid aggregation of states?”

“I do, if the causes of war were removed.”

“Exactly! We are trying to remove them. You and your friends of the South are trying to retain them. If their armies prevail in this struggle, the situation is hopeless. Nothing is settled. The Union is shattered. The future is black with trouble. If our armies prevail in this struggle, all the issues that led to the war become dead issues. The Union will be restored as it was. The future will be large with promise. I can see, so far as my vision reaches, but one end that will bring permanent peace and happiness. We must conquer the armies of the South; we must do it. The life of the Union, for which our fathers fought, depends on it. There, I’ve said a good deal. I don’t know that I’ve made myself clear. I don’t get a chance to talk to you copperheads very often. I take it when I can get it.”

There was nothing flippant or sarcastic in his tone or manner. He was frank and plain, but in deadly earnest. It required no brilliancy of comprehension to discover that. Rhett Bannister saw it and acknowledged it. He saw more. He saw that this man grasped the situation as no man had ever grasped it before. That in his heart the Union was the one thing of prime importance, and that his mind and soul and body were tense with the desire and effort to save the Union. But was he right? Was he right? For, while Bannister could not now but acknowledge the sincerity and skill of the man who was talking to him, he was not yet ready to yield his own judgment.

“I do not think you put yourself in the place of the men of the South,” he replied, “and look at the matter through their eyes. Consider for a moment. You deny them the right to live in new territory of the United States in the same manner in which they and their fathers, for generations back, have lived in their Southern homes. Is that just? They resent that as an indignity. You seek to compel them by force of arms to accept this humiliating situation. They resist. Why should they not? Finally, you yourself issue a proclamation depriving them, so far as lies in your power, of their right to own slaves. Then you demand that they lay down their arms in order to save the Union. Do you think they can greatly care whether such a Union as that is saved or broken?”

Lincoln leaned over and laid his hand on Bannister’s knee.

“My friend,” he said, “you look at but one aspect of the case. I believe I view it as a whole. You are sincere in your belief. I concede that. The great body of your brethren in the South are sincere. We are both fighting for what we believe to be the right. We both pray to the same God for the success of our armies. We could not do that if we were not honest with ourselves. But I believe I have the larger vision. I believe I see more clearly what will bring about the largest measure of prosperity for all of us. I believe in the Union as it was. I want to preserve it. I want to bring back into it all those states, all those citizens who are willfully and mistakenly trying to leave it, and to destroy it. All that I have done, I have done with that end in view. All that I shall do, I shall do with that end in view. If I have proclaimed emancipation for the slaves, that was the purpose of it. If we must prosecute this war until their last soldier, or ours, is lying dead on the battle-field, that will be the purpose of it. I have declared amnesty to every man in rebellion, save the leaders of the insurrection, who will come back to us and take the oath of allegiance. The purpose of the declaration is to save, to restore, to build up, to make bigger and better and stronger the Union which has been and ought to be more to us and dearer to us than any man or body of men that the nation can produce. That is my one mission, my one purpose, my one hope, and, under God, my one determination to the end.”

Into the gaunt, haggard, ashen face came, as he talked, the light of the high purpose that filled his soul. To Rhett Bannister, looking on him, listening in breathless suspense, it seemed almost as though, like the angel at the sepulchre, “his countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow.” The mighty and homely spirit that had dominated great minds in this tremendous conflict, and bent them to its will, had already laid its spell on the mind of this one-time hater of the nation’s chief. Abraham Lincoln stood revealed before him now, not as the ambitious tyrant, the crafty plotter, the traitor to his kind, but as the one man of greatest skill, of wisest thought, of tenderest heart, of largest soul, whom the troublous times had brought forth.

In the silence that followed Lincoln’s words, as Bannister sat mute and thrilled, he felt that every heart-beat in his breast was hammering down the last barrier that stood between him and the personality of the great President. Henceforth, no matter how divergent their views, their logic, their ways to conclusions, in the essence of a large patriotism and a great humanity their souls had touched, and they were one.

At length Bannister spoke. It was his last word, his final protest, his weak clutch at the floating, fading straw.

“But the pride of the South, Mr. President; the pride of the South!”

Lincoln sat back and crossed his legs, and over his face there came a reminiscent smile.

“Up in Sangamon County,” he said, “when I lived there, I knew a man by the name of Seth Mills. He owned a spring in common with his neighbor Sam Lewis. But they couldn’t agree on the amount of water each should have, nor how much could be carried away by trough; and their quarrel over the spring led to a fight and a lawsuit. Well, when I went up to Springfield, the controversy was still on, but Seth was getting a good bit the worst of it. One day he came up to Springfield to see me, and when he came into my office I said to myself: ‘The spring war has reached an acute stage.’ But Seth sat down and said: ‘Abe, I’ve decided to be generous to Sam. He’s licked me in the courts of Sangamon County, but I could take the case up to the Supreme Court of the United States and make him a lot o’ trouble and cost. But I ain’t goin’ to do it. I’m goin’ to swaller my pride an’ be liberal with him. Now I’ve proposed to Sam that he chip in an’ we’ll build the spring bigger an’ deeper, an’ wall it up, an’ put in a pipe big enough to run water to both our houses. It’ll cost two or three dollars, but I believe it’s wuth it. An’ Sam has yielded the p’int and accepted the offer.’”

Lincoln laughed softly and then continued:—

“It seems to me, my friend, that the South can afford to do as Seth Mills did, swallow her pride, be generous to us, get back with us into the Union, and help us build it bigger and broader and deeper, and wall it up, and put in a pipe big enough to supply us all with prosperity and happiness and peace. Maybe it’ll cost two or three dollars, but I believe it’s worth it.”

It was not until the story and its moral were nearly finished that Bannister realized that it was about his own old Seth Mills that the President was talking.

“I know that man, Mr. Lincoln,” he said. “I know Seth Mills, and I can well believe and appreciate the story. He has been, for years, my next and most valued neighbor, a good citizen, an honest man, and a worshiper at the shrine of Abraham Lincoln.”

“Well, now, I’m glad to hear from Seth; I’m glad to hear from him. I knew he went East somewhere. You tell him, when you see him, if you ever do, that Abe Lincoln sends him greeting and good wishes in memory of the old days in Sangamon County.”

Then the light of reminiscent memory died out from the President’s face, and the old strained, haggard, weary look came back into it. He straightened up his long body and said:—

“Let’s see. You’re a fugitive, ain’t you? a deserter?”

“Something like that, I believe, Mr. Lincoln.”

The President rose and went out into the telegraph office and gave some orders. When he came back he said:—

“I’ve sent for Lieutenant Forsythe. I’ll turn you over to him. He’ll see that you get to the right place. Tell me again about that boy of yours, will you?”

So Bannister again told Bob’s story, and again expressed his willingness and eagerness to take the boy’s place in the ranks.

“I do not feel quite as I did when I came in here, Mr. Lincoln,” he said. “I am ready now to concede that the quickest way to permanent peace is by the subjugation of the Southern armies. But, Mr. President, when the South is beaten, I am sure—I am sure you will be charitable.”

The President did not reply. He had turned to the table, taken a pen, and begun to write. When he had finished he again faced Bannister, and read to him what he had written. It was as follows:—

He folded the letter, handed it to Bannister, and said:—

“There, you can give that to Forsythe when he comes, and he’ll take you to Meade; and whatever Meade says must be done must be done. Maybe he’ll take you and discharge the boy. Maybe he’ll keep you both. Maybe he’ll keep the boy and have you court-martialed and shot. Whatever he does you’ll have to be satisfied with it. Well, I guess that’s all.”

He rose to his feet, took his well-worn, high, black hat from the table, and reached out his hand to Bannister, who gripped it, unable for a moment to speak. When his voice did come to him he could only say:—

“Mr. President, I am deeply grateful to you. I came here distrusting and disliking you. I shall leave here—well—I—from to-day I am a Lincoln conscript.”

In the telegraph office the President stopped for a few moments to look over late dispatches, and then went out, back through the park and across the lawn, to the treadmill of the White House, there to wear his own life out that the nation which he loved might live.

While Bannister was waiting for his guard, Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton, stern, spectacled, heavy-bearded, came bustling in.

“Well,” he said as he espied Bannister in his room, “what is it? What do you want?”

“I am waiting for Lieutenant Forsythe,” replied Bannister, who at once recognized the great War Secretary. “Mr. Lincoln has given me this order.”

As he spoke, he handed the letter to the Secretary, who took it and read it carefully through.

“Another one of the President’s interferences!” he exclaimed impatiently. “He has enough to do at the White House. I wish he would let this department alone. His orders for suspension of sentence, and honorable discharge, and all that, in defiance of the regulations, are absolutely subversive of discipline. They are demoralizing the entire army.”

A young officer had entered while the testy Secretary was voicing his annoyance, and now stood at attention in the doorway.

“Here’s another order of the President’s,” continued the Secretary, addressing the officer. “He wants you to take this man down to Meade. I don’t know anything about the case. It ought to have gone through this department. I suppose I’ll have to back it.”

He sat down at the table, endorsed the letter on the back, and handed it to the officer, who took it and read it carefully.

“Why is it,” continued Stanton, still voicing his irritability, “that the President always chooses you to send on these irregular errands?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Secretary,” replied the lieutenant, “except that Mr. Lincoln and I trust each other.”

The great War Secretary looked at the officer for a moment, with a quizzical expression in his eyes, then, without another word, he turned to his desk and took up again the herculean task which as a patriot, as an enthusiast, as a lover though a critic of Lincoln, he cheerfully and splendidly performed.

So Bannister, accompanied by his guard, went out, along the street, across the Potomac, and down through war-ravaged Virginia, toward the camping hosts of Meade, toward the son who, with a foresight clearer than his own, had preceded him to war. And as he went a new fire of patriotism burned in his heart, a new light of comprehension illumined his mind, and to his list of the world’s great heroes was added a new great name.