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Chapter 37

As soon as Lincoln was elected the attitude of the South showed
clearly that 'the irrepressible conflict', of Mr Seward's naming, had
only just begun. The Herald gave columns every day to the news of
'the coming Revolution', as it was pleased to call it. There was
loud talk of war at and after the great Pine Street meeting of
December 15. South Carolina seceded, five days later, and then we
knew what was coming, albeit, we saw only the dim shadow of
that mighty struggle that was to shake the earth for nearly five
years. The Printer grew highly irritable those days and spoke of
Buchanan and Davis and Toombs in language so violent it could
never have been confined in type. But while a bitter foe none was
more generous than he and, when the war was over, his money
went to bail the very man he had most roundly damned.

I remember that one day, when he was sunk deep in composition, a
negro came and began with grand airs to make a request as
delegate from his campaign club. The Printer sat still, his eyes
close to the paper, his pen flying at high speed. The coloured
orator went on lifting his voice in a set petition. Mr Greeley bent to
his work as the man waxed eloquent. A nervous movement now
and then betrayed the Printer's irritation. He looked up, shortly, his
face kindling with anger.

'Help! For God's sake!' he shrilled impatiently, his hands flying in
the air. The Printer seemed to be gasping for breath.

'Go and stick your head out of the window and get through,' he
shouted hotly to the man.

He turned to his writing - a thing dearer to him than a new bone to
a hungry dog.

'Then you may come and tell me what you want,' he added in a
milder tone.

Those were days when men said what they meant and their
meaning had more fight in it than was really polite or necessary.
Fight was in the air and before I knew it there was a wild,
devastating spirit in my own bosom, insomuch that I made haste to
join a local regiment. It grew apace but not until I saw the first
troops on their way to the war was I fully determined to go and
give battle with my regiment.

The town was afire with patriotism. Sumter had fallen; Lincoln
had issued his first call. The sound of the fife and drum rang in the
streets. Men gave up work to talk and listen or go into the sterner
business of war. Then one night in April, a regiment came out of
New England, on its way to the front. It lodged at the Astor House
to leave at nine in the morning. Long before that hour the building
was flanked and fronted with tens of thousands, crowding
Broadway for three blocks, stuffing the wide mouth of Park Row
and braced into Vesey and Barday Streets. My editor assigned me
to this interesting event. I stood in the crowd, that morning, and
saw what was really the beginning of the war in New York. There
was no babble of voices, no impatient call, no sound of idle jeering
such as one is apt to hear in a waiting crowd. It stood silent, each
man busy with the rising current of his own emotions, solemnified
by the faces all around him. The soldiers filed out upon the
pavement, the police having kept a way clear for them, Still there
was silence in the crowd save that near me I could hear a man
sobbing. A trumpeter lifted his bugle and sounded a bar of the
reveille. The clear notes clove the silent air, flooding every street
about us with their silver sound. Suddenly the band began playing.
The tune was Yankee Doodle. A wild, dismal, tremulous cry came
out of a throat near me. It grew and spread to a mighty roar and
then such a shout went up to Heaven, as I had never heard, and as I
know full well I shall never hear again. It was like the riving of
thunderbolts above the roar of floods - elemental, prophetic,
threatening, ungovernable. It did seem to me that the holy wrath of
God Almighty was in that cry of the people. It was a signal. It
declared that they were ready to give all that a man may give for
that he loves - his life and things far dearer to him than his life.
After that, they and their sons begged for a chance to throw
themselves into the hideous ruin of war.

I walked slowly back to the office and wrote my article. When the
Printer came in at twelve I went to his room before he had had
time to begin work.

'Mr Greeley,' I said, 'here is my resignation. I am going to the war.'

His habitual smile gave way to a sober look as he turned to me, his
big white coat on his arm. He pursed his lips and blew
thoughtfully. Then he threw his coat in a chair and wiped his eyes
with his handkerchief.

'Well! God bless you, my boy,' he said. 'I wish I could go, too.'

Irving Bacheller