American Civil War

From "Buffalo Beacher's

                                -Joseph Xavier Martin

 

                                                Civil war is coming

 

       In the early part of 1860, Buffalo, like most of the nation, knew that war was coming. Relations between the North and South had deteriorated during the presidential election of 1860. The South was utterly opposed to the election of Abraham Lincoln.

 

        It was early February, 1861. The Beach and the City were all abuzz with chatter about the arrival today of President- elect Abraham Lincoln.

Mrs. Nora Kelly was sitting on the stoop of her home and talking with neighbor Bridget Donovan.

 

         “Do you know that the great man is coming to visit us today, Bridget?” Asked Nora

 

         “And who is that, Nora?” asked Bridget.

 

          “Why the newly elected sixteenth President of these United States of course,” replied Nora.

 

            “He is coming here to the beach to see us?” asked Bridget in puzzlement.

 

              “No, you silly goose,” said Nora. ”He isn’t coming to the beach. They say the new train is bringing him into downtown Buffalo this afternoon. Sure, I would like to go and see the great man. But, then it is a ferry-ride over the river  and a long stretch of the leg into downtown. And I have nothing to put on that doesn’t  look like the pigs have slept in them. I guess I will just wait and hear about it from the lads at Donovan’s.”

 

              “will they all be there then? “ asked Bridget.

 

              “Aye, the older lads have already had a few pints in the talking about it. They will surely make the rally. I guess we will hear about it from them.”

 

              After 4 P.M. Lincoln’s entourage pulled into the exchange street station in downtown Buffalo. All around the station and in the tall buildings nearby, crowds of onlookers strained to see the tall politician from Illinois. The crowds pushed and shoved, anxious to see the great man.

             A detachment of soldiers from Fort Porter, cleared the way and escorted Lincoln and former President Millard Fillmore to their carriage. They were headed for lunch and a rally at the American Hotel nearby.

From the hotel’s second story balcony, Lincoln greeted the crowd to rousing cheers.

 

            The newly elected President thanked the people for coming out to greet them, then spoke solemnly.

 

            “Be confident and of good faith, my friends” the tall President orated. “We will get through these difficulties with our southern brothers. Keep your composure. We will get through this.” In the next two weeks, seven southern states had seceded from the Union and the great struggle would soon begin.

 

        When Lincoln was elected, the South cast the die. Confederate forces fired on Fort Sumpter in Charleston S.C harbor. It was the beginning of a four-year blood bath that was to claim well over six hundred thousand Americans from the North and South.

 

         In Buffalo, there was enthusiasm for the Union cause. President Lincoln’s visit to Buffalo in early 1861 had fired up local enthusiasm. A federal draft of volunteers was established. Erie County’s quota was 3,800 men. As usual, most of the hardships of the draft fell on the poor working class. The wealthy were able to “buy a substitute” for $500. This would be a person who would fight the war in his stead. Future President, Grover Cleveland, a young attorney, took advantage of the provision.

 

        Dutifully, nine hundred and sixty men reported to Fort Porter to enlist and serve with Colonel James M. Brown in the 100^th New York Volunteer regiment. Their service was to be like many of the State’s Volunteer regiments. Their casualties were horrendous. New York sent 400,000 men to serve in the Civil War. 40,000 of these men died from wounds or disease.

 

        Many of the recruits were Irish immigrants. And in the coming years, they would stare down the barrel of  their guns at the sons and grandchildren of other Irish Immigrants, who had arrived in the Southern States before they themselves  had come across from Ireland.

 

Conversations like this were common across the bloody battle fields. Americans were killing Americans, many of whom might be relations of neighbors in the far away misty isle of Eire.

 

       Private Sean Stanton, who had grown up on  Buffalo’s Shanty Town Beach, was standing in a trench, looking across the hazy battlefield of Fair Oaks, Va. In 1862. His commander James M. Brown had fallen to enemy fire earlier in the day.

 

     “Do you see, Michael?” he asked of corporal Michael Sheehan, a  beacher neighbor and company member.

 

     “What’s that, Sean?” Michael said as he looked up from running a ram rod and cleaning rag down the barrel of his rifle.

 

        “The lads across the way are flying the green harp flag of Eire,” Sean said. “Do you think they are lads like us?

 

         “Aye, they might be,” said Michael. “But no matter what flag they are flying, they are wearing the rebel gray and they mean to kill us if they can. So, shoot the first son of a bitch that comes into your sights. Never mind what flag he is carrying.”

 

 

          From another soldier, in a letter home, George Tipping, a Buffalo volunteer, had written his wife “Well Catherine, almost all of us are killed or taken to Richmond by the rebs, as prisoners of war. The Johnny rebs came on us and gave us as sound a whipping as ever we got during the summer. In another letter Tipping wrote “ I am all right so far, Thanks God. I think God is very good to me, better than I deserve. On October 27^th, as part of a Union advance on General Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia, Tipping was one of 19 men killed in action.

 

      Even the high and mighty were brought down. At the Battle of Cedar Creek in Virginia, Black Rock born Brigadier General Daniel Bidwell was mortally wounded and succumbed to his wounds. The most tragic of America’s wars claimed a heavy toll of Buffalo residents. Beachers paid the costly price of admission for American citizenship.

 

        The lads on the beach had gathered one night at Donovan’s after Appomattox.

 

         “What do we do now?” asked Dooley Ryan. “What will become of the south?”

 

           “I don’t know, Dooley,” said Liam O’Malley. “They say Lincoln wants to go easy on the rebs so that they can get back to farming. Sure, the man let them keep their rifles and mules.”

 

           “And what of all the lads from the beach that we lost in the war? asked Dooley. “Did their deaths count for nothing then? It was a question asked in every saloon and homestead across the northern United States.

 

            It was after Appomattox. Lee had surrendered the Southern forces. The union Victory, though mortally expensive, was complete.

 

          The New President was attending a performance of “Our American Cousin” at Ford’s Theater, in downtown Washington D.C.

 

          During the play, a shot rang out from the Presidential box. A man, later identified as John Wilkes Booth an actor, leaped down onto the stage from the President’s box. He hollered “sic semper Tyrannus,” (thus always to tyrants) and limped off, having broken his leg in the leap onto the stage.

 

            The mortally wounded President was carried across the street to a small, private hotel. He lay there on a bed and slowly passed on the mortal wound.

 

             Pursuers tracked Booth down in a rural barn in Virginia. He was killed in the pursuit. Federal agents also rounded up other conspirators who had tried to murder Secretary of War and the vice President. The cabal had hoped to rally the south with this assassination and start a new nation.

 

              Like most things in the world outside the Beach, news reached there slowly. A few days afterwards, a group of neighbors were gathered around the bath house on the beach.

 

             “And they shot the poor man, did you say? Asked Bimmy O’Toole.

 

              “Aye Bimmy, the man passed quickly afterwards,” answered Jimmy O’Shea. “Tis a great shame, what they did to him.”

 

              “And di they catch the rascals who did it?” asked Bimmy.

 

               “They did, Bimmy. They did. Sure, the trigger man is already dead, may the Lord forgive him for his sins.” said Jimmy.

 

               Much of the nation had the same questions and wondered what would happen now.

 

              On April 27, the train bearing the funeral cortege approached the exchange street station in Buffalo, New York. The slain President had already had ritual services in Washington D.C. Now, the funeral train was travelling though the east on its way back to Springfield, Illinois, for interment.

 

            At the train station, the flag-draped coffin was placed on to a hearse. The six white horses were draped in black blankets, their heads dressed in black plumes. An official honor guard of Civil War Veterans stood along-side of the coffin, as they walked slowly towards Niagara Square, where services were to be held.

 

           Canons were fired every half hour during the day, by a local army artillery unit in Lafayette Square. The viewing of the casket would take place in nearby St. James Hall. The crowd, though huge in number, was solemn of mien. It was a mournful citizenry who had come to say goodbye to the great man.

 

           Outside, Beacher  Paddy Carberry stood with son Liam.

 

          “Who is the man inside, Da?” asked young Liam.

 

          “He was a great man, Liam. Or sixteenth President, Abraham Lincoln.” Replied Paddy, for he wanted his son to understand and remember what he saw.

 

           “Why did they shoot him, then?” asked Liam in puzzlement.

 

           “Some men were mad at him for the Union winning the war,” answered Paddy patiently.

 

            “And will these people pay a great price for their crime,” asked Liam.

 

            “Yes, they will son” said Paddy grimly. The defeated South would pay dearly for this awful crime.

 

              When the Buffalo services concluded, the coffin was placed back in the hearse and driven back to the exchange street station. The funeral train left for Cleveland shortly afterwards, another station of the cross for a wounded nation.

              

                                       (1,669 words)