The Night of the Great Man
Writing. The writing consumed him. The cancer consumed him. It was a race to see which would find its end first. Time was failing him; he needed to finish the writing.
Sam had told him the books would do well, that the public would love to read his memoirs, that this would be a way for him to provide for his family after he was gone. He still thought it a curiosity that both he and Sam shared that particular nickname, yet the public was largely unaware of that fact; the two men were known by names very different from Sam to the world at large.
There was a soft knock at the parlor door leading out onto the porch. The great man looked up from his work as a servant answered the knock, then turned and said, "Sir? There are two men here to see you."
He looked beyond the servant to the men waiting out on the porch. His eyes lit up and he waved them in.
They entered, the younger man of the pair leading the way as usual. They doffed their hats - the servant quietly took them - and they stood side by side, smiling down at their old commander.
It had been some seven or eight years since the great man had seen them regularly. Time had not dealt so very harshly with the pair - a few more pounds perhaps, a few more lines on their faces, maybe a touch of snow in their hair. The great man could see in their eyes though, despite their smiles, how appalled the two were at what time had done to him. But then in his case, time had been allied with the cancer.
"It's good to see you again, sir," said the younger man. He stepped forward and shook the great man's hand; the older of the pair followed suit. He saw the glance that passed between the two; his handshake, he knew, was weak - no, beyond weak. He was failing. He was glad to see old friends; many, many old friends had made the pilgrimage here to see him in these, his dying days. But it also pained him to see reflected in their eyes how much he had deteriorated, how little he looked like his old self.
He waved a hand at some chairs and they sat, murmuring brief words of politeness. The servant poured the two some drinks. And the reminiscing began.
The great man could barely join in; his voice was almost completely destroyed now. But it was good to listen to the others. The younger man had always been the leader of the two, but when it came to words - ah, there the older was the leader. A natural-born storyteller, he held forth royally, weaving with his voice a rich tapestry of the long years the three had known each other. Shiloh, Vicksburg, Cold Harbor, Petersburg, Appomattox, and all the places in between. The great man had been their commanding officer during the War, and they had been two of his most trusted men. So much so that, after the War, when he had been afforded the highest honor his fellow Americans could bestow upon him, he had called on these two to work for him once more, braving unimaginable dangers to keep this country - and at times, him personally - safe from threats on every side.
These memories, both tragic and comic, poured forth from the mouth of the older of the two, with occasional addenda from the younger. The great man knew he should be writing. But it felt so good to let someone else do the remembering for him for a change.
The afternoon wore on and eventually the stories wore out. The pair sat and sipped at the drinks; the great man was no longer permitted alcohol.
Clearing his throat, the older of the two added, "If it helps, sir, I'd be glad - honored! - to act as an amanuensis for you."
The great man smiled and shook his head. He was quite beyond being able to give dictation by this point. But he did appreciate the offer.
His wife came in and exclaimed over their visitors, inviting them to supper and to spend the night. And then at the dinner table the children (all four, of course, were grown-ups now, but in the mind of their father, they would ever be "the children") greeted the two men warmly as well.
Naturally there was little the family knew of the specifics of how these men had served their father over the years. But they knew the high regard in which their father held them, and that was enough. Now retired, the two men explained that they had agreed together to make the trip here to see the great man one last time.
In the morning the great man was back at his writing again. The two men took up stations nearby, quietly vigilant, falling easily into their erstwhile roles of bodyguards for their old commander. It was a mere ceremonial duty now; no one was threatening the great man's life anymore. Or at least, no one human. There was only the final Enemy left now, an enemy that could be subdued by neither the younger man's brawn nor the older's cunning. Yet they kept guard.
The days passed. The two had become permanent fixtures now, unobtrusively there as the great man continued to write - and to die. Other visitors came and went. The doctors poked and prodded and murmured and prescribed. The family tried to hide their grief and pretend the end was not near.
The summer wore on.
And then came the day when the writing ceased. The great man laid aside his pen and gathered the papers together and sighed. Done!
One of the two materialized at the great man's elbow. Brown eyes alight with curiosity, he asked, "May I?" The great man made a gesture of permission. Lifting the final sheet by its edges carefully lest the ink not be dry yet, the brown-eyed man read out in his stage-trained voice:
I feel that we are on the eve of a new era, when there is to be great harmony between the Federal and Confederate. I cannot stay to be a living witness to the correctness of this prophecy; but I feel it within me that it is to be so. The universally kind feeling expressed for me at a time when it was supposed that each day would prove my last, seemed to me the beginning of the answer to "Let us have peace."
The expression of these kindly feelings were not restricted to a section of the country, nor to a division of the people. They came from individual citizens of all nationalities; from all denominations—the Protestant, the Catholic, and the Jew; and from the various societies of the land—scientific, educational, religious or otherwise. Politics did not enter into the matter at all.
I am not egotist enough to suppose all this significance should be given because I was the object of it. But the war between the States was a very bloody and a very costly war. One side or the other had to yield principles they deemed dearer than life before it could be brought to an end. I commanded the whole of the mighty host engaged on the victorious side. I was, no matter whether deservedly so or not, a representative of that side of the controversy. It is a significant and gratifying fact that Confederates should have joined heartily in this spontaneous move. I hope the good feeling inaugurated may continue to the end.
There was silence. He laid the sheet back on the stack. "Thank you, sir." The great man's health may have abandoned him; his voice may have abandoned him. But his simple, clear eloquence had not abandoned him. And now here it was, preserved in writing, ready to be printed, ready to be published for the ages.
The end came on rapidly now. He had been hanging onto life tenaciously in order to complete the writing. Now that his goal had been accomplished, now that the memoirs to provide for his family were finished, what goal was there left to him to bind him to this earth?
He was failing visibly. Cancer's victory was in sight now. Every morning, the family and doctors and guests - and his two loyal men - wondered would he make it till nightfall. And every night, they wondered would he make it till morning's light again.
The night of the 22nd of July, the doctor's activity told the family not to go to their beds. They gathered near him, in the parlor where he lay or else on the adjoining porch, for the last vigil. Through the night they watched, the two men silently in the background, as the great man faded. Rallied. Faded once more. One by one his loved ones took his hand, spoke to him, saw that his mind was still strong though all else was stripped from him. He still knew them, tried defiantly to speak to them.
Morning came, and with it, unseen and unfelt, slipped in the final Enemy. Not wanting to crowd the great man, various family members at various times through the long night had gone out onto the porch. Now they gathered in again: his wife at one side, oldest son at the other, the remaining children close round his bed - the grandchildren mercifully sleeping through it all upstairs. And against the wall, unnoticed, his two loyal men.
In the end he went so peacefully, so gently, that the doctors had to tell them he was gone. And the peace of his passing remained, settling over the family. No loud protestations of grief. Just… peace. The long battle was over.
Most of the family drifted off to their beds after the end of the long night. The news of the great man's departure was telegraphed to the world. The undertaker was called in.
And one of the unobtrusive men said to the other, "You go get some sleep. I'll stand watch."
"All right. I'll spell you at noon."
They two would be his honor guard until a more official one took their place.
Two weeks later the great man was laid to rest in New York City. At the edge of the crowd all but unnoticed stood the two men. They had already offered their condolences to the family, so as the funeral ended, they quietly drifted away.
"They don't make 'em like that anymore," commented the younger man.
"No, they certainly don't," said the older. "You know," he added meditatively, "I have often wondered how everything would have turned out if he hadn't come to President Lincoln's attention when he did. He was the first general in charge of the Union Army who didn't crumble when General Lee bloodied his nose. He didn't draw back and lick his wounds for the next several months. He kept going. Lose a battle here, he just stepped to the side and fought the next battle at the next site." Looking off into the distance, he said, "What if he hadn't been there?"
The younger man shrugged. "Who knows? The important part is that he was there. Just when this nation needed him."
"True. That he was."
"By the way," said the younger man. He reached inside his jacket and produced a couple of cigars, passing one of them over to his friend. "One of his sons gave these to me. Said for us to smoke 'em and think of his father."
"Well, that's fitting!" Brown eyes twinkling, the older said, "Tell you what. Let's go find us a tavern and smoke these while we drink one last toast to the finest commanding officer, and the best boss, that you and I ever had."
The younger nodded. "Sounds like a good idea to me. Let's go."
"All right then. Although…"
"Hmm?"
"Well, it's just that in the old days, you could hardly set foot in a bar without a fight breaking out…"
The younger man shot his old friend an amused look and said dryly, "I'll try to restrain myself."
"Wonderful - and should a fight break out anyway…"
"Yes?"
"While you fight," the older of the two said with a wink, "I'll guard our drinks. Now that's fair, isn't it?"
And off they strolled.
FIN
My thanks to the following websites for information on the passing of the great man:
python dot net, for his obituary with extensive details of his final hours,
gutenberg dot org, for the excerpt from his memoirs, and
findagrave dot com, for information about his funeral.