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