The Long Ride Home

It’s my second day on this train from Washington D.C. to Springfield Illinois. When we arrive at the depot there, I will serve as a poll bearer for our fallen leader President Abraham Lincoln. We are currently traveling across Ohio and will arrive in Springfield early in the morning. I have seen thousands of people line both sides of the railroad t I sracks to bid him farewell.

“Hey kid, are you even old enough to be wearing that uniform?” A soldier with a long gray beard and a white streak on both sides of his head just above his ears. He nudges the sleeping man sitting beside him.

“Are we there yet?” The sleeping soldier mumbles as he rubs his eyes.

“You look much too young to be in that uniform.” He chuckles.

“The second week I was in uniform, I served at Chickamauga under General Rosecrans.” I stuck out my chin.

“You did dija?” He leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. “You look like ya not even set a razor to your face.”

“I am nearin’ twenty-one years of age.” I shook my head. “Joined up in Minneapolis once I graduated high school.”

“Impressive.” He grinned and elbowed the man who had fallen back to sleep.

“Whaaa?” The sleeping soldier shook his head waking himself, “Looky here Caleb, docha be wakin’ me. I ain’t had a good night’s sleep in months.”

“Jesse, I don’ mean no harm.” Caleb sighed. “So kid, whacha goin’ to be doin’?”

“I’m a pallbearer.” I answered.

“No kiddin’ so is me and Jesse.” He slapped Jesse on the shoulder.

“Will ya keep your mitts to yaself.” He warned the smaller man.

“Hush.” He shrugged, “Me and Jesse fought with some sharpshooters in Pennsylvania. We was at Gettysburg no more than a day’s ride to my pa’s farm. Jesse here is from Philadelphia. Whacha ya name, kid.”

“Henry Dalphy.” I glanced out the window at the crowds gathered at the side of the tracks. The gentlemen removed their hats as the train passed while the women dabbed their eyes with their handkerchiefs as the rain fell on them like tears from Heaven.

“Henry, it’s a pleasure to meecha.” Caleb shook my hand, “There will be six of us carrying the president’s casket. Three more are sitting in the next car.”

It was hard to believe that he was shot by a Confederate sympathizer named John Wilkes Booth, brother of a famous actor only one week after Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox Court House. It took place at Ford’s Theater when Booth snuck into the Presidential box and shot President Lincoln in the back of the head with a single shot Derringer. He died the next morning with his wife at his side.

Durning that horrible batter in September 1863, over half of my regiment lost their lives. There were dark moments when I thought for sure I’d meet that fate, but the good Lord was looking out for me. One reb pointed his musket at me. He had me dead to right, but his rifle misfired. I had my rifle loaded and I shot him dead where he stood. A few hours later, another reb charged me with his bayonet, but I was ready. He was bigger than I was, but I was quicker and I hit him in the head with the butt of my rifle. When he fell to the ground, I drove my bayonet right through him. He grunted as blood flowed out of his mouth. When we got back to our camp that evening, I had myself a good cry.

I ain’t no killer. Mama took me to church each Sunday with my two brothers and sister. The minister told us that killing was against God’s law, but my captain told me that in a battle it was either him or me. I weren’t about to let that be me.

“We gonna get there early in the morning.” Caleb said.

“I know’d. Springfield, Illinois.” I felt my eyelids get heavy. The sun was getting squeezed out of the sky as we passed Cleveland.

“I heard the grub on this train is mighty fine.” Jesse was awake and smiling at the thought of having a good dinner.

“The conductor will be callin’ us to dinner shortly.” Caleb said.

I remembered my first night in Tennessee when the Chuckwagon cook slopped some noodles and dark meat into my mess kit. One of the guys said the reason it was so dark was because it had a nice gallop in the earlier part of the day. All I remember was that the meat was real chewy.

The next day we met the Confederate army lead by General Bragg. When it was over and the smoke cleared, fifty thousand met lay dead on the battlefield. Helping my father butcher our livestock could not compare with the number of dead on that battlefield. While we were marching to Chattanooga to cut the state of Tennessee in half all I could think about was listening to the dying moan. I heard it throughout the night. I even heard it in my dreams.

“Private Dalphy, what can I do for you?” Chaplin Saunders asked as I sat staring at the sagging clouds in the firmament.

“I am tired of the figthin’” I rubbed my eyes.

“I can understand that.” He patted me on my back.

“So many bleeding into the dirt as they die.” I began to sob.

“It is hard to understand sometimes. You’re just a young fella. Is this the first time ya been away from home?”

“Yes sir.” I bobbed my head as my tears continued to fall.

“Why doncha come to one of my services and we can pray together?” He smiled.

“How there be a god? How can god accept what we are doing here?” The tone of my voice was bitter and harsh.

“God will deliver you from your enemies.” He shook his head as he handed me a clean handkerchief to wipe my tears with. I wiped my tears with it and even blew my nose.

“Deliver us? Even he can’t deliver us from all this.” I turned my head away from him.

“One day the war will be over and the killing with be over.”

“When? When will it be over?”

“As soon as they realize this isn’t worth it.” He closed his eyes, “I must minister to the others.”

“Alright.” I sniffed.

“You keep the handkerchief.” He stood and patted me on the back before he left me to sit and wonder where God was when the artillery was falling on us. As it turned out Chattanooga wasn’t much better, but when it was over we had defeated one of the Confederate states.

Hey kid.” Caleb shook me awake from my nightmare.

“What?”

“We are pulling into the Springfield depot.” He pointed out the window.

There was a crowd of people on the platform.

“We brought the president home.” Jesse said as he stood up preparing to disembark the train.

“Where is his casket?” Caleb asked Jesse.

“In the last car with windows so the folks can see the casket.” Jesse answered. “There will be a crew to put his casket in a horse drawn carriage.”

“Fitting.” Caleb nodded as he grabbed his rucksack.

When I stepped off the train, I looked to my right where I saw four colored men dressed in dirty overalls carefully lifting the casket from the last car. Straining a bit, they placed the casket into the back of the carriage. I bowed my head and removed my cap to pay my respect to the fallen president.

I had spent three days on the train, but it seemed longer as I made myway through the crowd.

“Are you part of the pallbearers?” A captain wearing his dress uniform as me as he held a clipboard like the commanding officer did during a muster. They did it after a battle to find out who was still alive.

“Yes sir. Henry Dalphy reporting.” I rendered a salute.

“No need for that here, son.” He shook his head and put a checkmark by my name. “Welcome to Springfield.”

“Good to be here, sir.” I smiled.

“My name is Captain Bochum, and I will be the officer in charge of this detail. You will be billeted at the hotel across the street.”

“Very well sir.” I glanced at the building across the street from the depot. In big red letters over the door was “Hotel.”

“Just report to the front desk.” He nodded.

“Have a good day, sir.” I slung my rucksack over my shoulder.

“Any day I’m not getting shot at, is a good day.” He chuckled.

I got my key and went to my room. As soon as my head hit the soft pillow, I was asleep. It had been a long ride home for the president. I wondered what he would think of all the people who stood there as hie train went by. When I woke up the next morning, I pulled my white gloves from my sack and made sure they fit me properly.

“Henry.” My mother called me when I was on leave after the battle of Chattanooga, “I wanted to talk to you.”

“What about, ma?”

“You seem quiet.” She put a finger on he chin.

“Not much to say.” I shrugged.

“Which is so unlike you.” She pulled a chair away from the kitchen table so I could sit with her.

“I’ve been through a lot.” I told her.

“I know.” She sighed, “Tommy and Danny, your cousins were killed in battle.”

“What?” I felt as if hot needles were being poked into my skin.

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but they went off to fight. Tommy Abbott died at Gettysburg while his brother Danny died Fredericksburg.” She said tears began to roll down her cheeks. We played in the fields when we were boys before Aunt Jenny took them to New York after their pa died from having a stroke as he was plowing the field.

“I feel as if my heart is breaking.” I wiped the tears off my cheeks. I pulled the handkerchief from my pocket the Chaplin had given me.

I put the handkerchief on the dresser in my hotel room. There was a knock at the door. I shuffled to answer it.

“Private Dalphy, I will be getting you up at seven in the morning.”Captain Bochum still dressed in his Class A uniform. “Ceremony starts at eight and you will have to be dressed and ready.”

“Yes sir.” I nodded.

“What unit were you with?”

“Fourth Infantry from Minnesota.” I answered with a smile.

“I remember them. You guys took quite a beating at Chickamauga.” He leaned on the door frame.

“Lost half our regiment.” I nodded.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here.” He smiled before turning on his heel and walking down the hallway as I shut the door.

“Hold the pig still son.” My father repeated himself, but the pig squirmed out of my arms. My pa had the knife in his hand ready to slice the pig’s throat.

“I’m doing my best.” I told him.

“Well, you gotta do better. I want to slice the pig’s throat not my hand.” He said with a definite sternness. When he managed to get the blade on the pig, he sliced the pig. Blood shot out of the pig’s throat like a red fountain. I began to gag. “Whasa matter with ya, boy?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you choking on your own vomit?” He squinted at me, “Do you wanna eat dinner?”

“Yes sir.” I choked back some bile.

When dinner came, all I could see was that pig struggling to get free before that cold knife ended his life.

“What’s the matter, Henry?” My mother asked.

“Nothing.” I glanced over at my pa who was shaking his head.

“Help me, Henry.” Charles Walton begged as I tried to stop his bleeding with a piece of my uniform shirt.

“I’m trying to stop the bleeding.” I said, but all I could see what a helpless pig slowly bleeding to death as I put pressure on the gunshot wound, but Charlie was dead before the stretcher bearers arrived.

I woke up screaming. Taking a deep breath, I looked at my clock. Captain Bochum would be coming in a few minutes to wake me, but I was already awake. After the ceremony was over, I would be boarding a train for home. Once I got there, I would set fire to my uniforms. There was a knock at the door.

“I’m awake.” I call out.

“In front of the hotel in ten minutes.” His voice carried through the door.

“Yes sir.” I answered.

The casket with the president inside was still on the carriage at the livery stable. There were four armed guards and a couple of law officers in the stable with the president.

“It is known that there are remnants of Rebel Guerrillas that would like to have the body of the president to show as a trophy. It is imperative that we keep an eye on this.” Captain Bochum said as he put on his white gloves. He was to ride his horse holding he saber against his shoulder while we would follow behind carrying President Lincoln’s casket.

A crowd had gathered at the pavilion that would include his wife and children as well as some generals to honor their fallen leader. A drummer would set the solemn slow half-step cadence. The weight was enough to add some strain to the six of us. There would be an American flag on each side of the pavilion. An American flag was draped over the casket we would be carrying. The minister would say prayers over the casket followed by a few words from Governor Richard Yates. There would be a collapsible stand where we would place the flag draped casket. Once the placing the casket on the stand, we would take a step back and stand at attention. Upon the first bugle note of “Taps,” we would render a salute while the Honor Guard would do a twenty-one-gun salute.

“How ya doin,’ kid?” Caleb whispered in my ear as the pavilion came into view. It was as large as any building in the capital and there were over a hundred people gathered for the ceremony.

“This is heavy that’s for sure.” I grunted.

“Me and Jesse got it just fine. You’re doin’ great kid.” He snickered.

“Thanks.”

“Just a few more feet and our labor will be done.” Jesse said in a whisper and then winked at me.

I was glad when we finally put the casket in place on the stand. The minister spoke about the frailty of life after the bloodbath of the past four years. Governor Yates spoke about how President Lincoln had earned a place in the history of the country. The women in the stands all had their handkerchief out and all the men had removed their hats in reverence of the president. We had received word that John Wilkes Booth was shot and killed by Sargeant Boston as he tried to escape from a burning barn.

Upon the first note from the bugler, the six of us came to attention and saluted. The long journey home was finally over as the president’s casket was lowered into his grave. Governor Yates shook each of our hands. Mary Lincoln, still wiping her tears, thanked each of us for carrying her husband’s casket. It was nearly sundown when the crowd finally dispersed.

“So kid, you goin’ home?” Caleb stood there rocking on his heels.

“My train leaves in the morning.” I smiled.

“Me too. Been a long time away.” He bowed his head.

“You gotta long journey head of you, doncha?” Jesse spit some of his chew into the dirt.

“It may be long, but it all be worth it.” I glanced at both of them.Caleb held out his hand and I shook it.

“You’re a good kid. Don’t let nobody tall ya otherwise.” He reached out an slapped me on the shoulder.

“I’m just glad this war is finally over.” Jesse shook my hand.

Yes, the war was over. My prayer is this conflict would never happen again. I hoped we had learned our lesson about fighting a war against other Americans. Somehow I managed to survive and I wanted to make sure I told my story about terrible it was and how I came to Springfield, Illinois to carry the casket of our sixteenth president killed just one week after the war ended.

Tomorrow I would board the train and take the long ride home.