Emancipation

They had toured through the camps all morning, and Grant now turned down a smaller road, a sudden shift in direction, guided the procession along a brief cut through thin woods. He glanced at Lincoln, saw the President ducking under a low tree limb, and said, “Excuse me, sir. I thought you might enjoy visiting one of the units of the Eighteenth Corps. They equipped themselves quite well in the last fight, captured a good number of the enemy’s guns.”

Lincoln nodded happily, was clearly enjoying himself, said, “Whatever you say, Mr. Grant. Whatever you say.”

The trees now gave way to open ground, and they rode up a short rise, then beyond, rows of tents, and now Lincoln understood, saw for himself why Grant had brought him this way. Through the rows of tents, from around the small fires, men began to move out into the road, filling it, blocking the way, began now to cheer, loud and boisterous, hands reaching out toward Lincoln, his name echoing across the camp like church bells. He touched the hands, reached out as far as he could, and Grant knew, watching them, that Lincoln had already touched each of them, all of them. It was a camp of men who had volunteered as so many had volunteered, to pick up a gun and fight and die for their country.

But there was a difference. That these men would fight, and fight so well, was a surprise to many, and many still would not believe it. But Grant saw it in Lincoln’s face, there was no surprise at all, that Lincoln had believed from the beginning that war was color-blind. Grant let the horse drift to the side, let the troops move past him, a wave of blue uniforms, the sea of black faces pushing forward, the cries and the joy and the tears filling the air, flowing up and around the smiling face of the President.


- From The Last Full Measure, by Jeff Shaara, chapter 26, pages 311-312.


What an excellent read, in all sense of the word!