CHAPTER I. A NEW INVASION. "O Peace! thou source and soul of social life; And swelling commerce opens all her ports." -Thompson. TWENTY years ago the roar of a cannon on the shore of South Carolina proclaimed a fratricidal strife in America. The chain of brotherly love was broken. From Northern workshops and Southern fields went a million of men to end by force of arms what force of argument had failed to accomplish. The line of battle was drawn, and face to face stood brother and brother. Twenty years ago the Seventy-first was one of the first organized regiments to offer its services to the National Government. For years the regiment had been distinctively called the American Guard, and its reputation was not unknown to the authorities at Washington. Its services were accepted. writer to tell the story of that conflict. It is written deeply enough in American soil. With that history the Seventy-first has indissolubly and most honorably interwoven its name and fame. It is no part of the duty of the In 1861 it left its armory for the South. Strong men were moved and women wept as with steady ranks and grave faces the men marched down Broadway. The drums seemed to roll a funeral march. Many never came back-side by side with those who wore the gray--they lie in the sunny fields of the South. The flag was their shroud, the battle field their sepulchre. The In 1881 again the order came to march; again there were the busy scenes at the armory; again the drums rolled out along Broadway. But it was no funeral roll this time, faces were smiling now, cheers and "God bless you's" took the place of tears and lamentations. Louisiana regiments which had plunged into the fire and smoke of Bullrun to find the American Guard firm and steady amid the carnage, now waited with outstretched arms on the banks of the Mississippi, to welcome as brothers, those whom they had before met as foes. In 1861 they met with crossed bayonets. In 1881 they met with clasped hands. It was a new invasion of the South, but the olive and the magnolia twined about the rifles and the old flag rose and fell over all. It was no mere frolic that took the Battalion of the The men who formed the ex Seventy-first to the South. pedition were not idlers; they did not enter into the expedition with idle motives. From the highest in rank to the drummer, they had occupation at home. They were in fact the peers of their fellow citizens who remained behind. "With malice toward none," the Pelican had bowed its stately head to the Empire State and said: "We of the South are anxious to show to you of the North that the war is over. The throbbing of the war drums is hushed, the rancor of the past is gone forever. The soldiers of the South are Americans like yourselves, they have been and are misrepresented by designing men, and they are tired of misrepresentation. The old sectional bitterness is swallowed up in the desire for a new era of peace and brotherly love. Come and visit us that we may show you how sincere we are. And it was a mission of no slight import. Representative Southern men had issued the invitation. The Royal Host of New Orleans, probably the most powerful society in the Southern States, having for its object the developement of the financial and commercial interests of the South, and knowing no politics, no creed, headed the invitations with the offer of generous hospitality. The City of New Orleans, the State Government of Louisiana, the active National Guard and the veterans of the war joined in the tender of warm friendship. These offers of good will made the expedition a necessity. Its wisdom cannot be doubted, since the result is known. Hardly was the announcement made, when other States, Cities and towns wheeled into line and showered on the Battalion of the Seventy-first such an accumulation of honors as to raise the expedition to the dignity of National interest. Those who accompanied the expedition believed that the extraordinary reception accorded it on all sides and at every little hamlet en route, was a display of genuine feeling. The train bearing the blue coated soldiers of the North passed through many States, and it was nearest the heart of the old confederacy that the reception was warmest. No amount of dragooning for the sake of policy could have controlled the country sections of Kentucky and Mississippi. Yet there were hundreds of people who flocked about the stations and extended the right hand of fellowship, while there was not a single instance of unfriendliness. Thus it was that the men of the Seventy-first knowing that the eyes of the South at least were on them and with a heart-felt desire to meet the proffered friendship more than half-way, left New York, to return overwhelmed with kindness and hopelessly indebted to their hosts. The 24th of February was a cold blustering day. The sun came out brilliantly enough in the morning but its rays were tempered with keen winds that searched every nook and corner for victims. The old armory was chilly notwithstanding the roaring fires that armorer Kennedy kept bright. Hundreds of men rushed about here and there preparing for a march that was to be memorable in the history of the regiment. Such an accumulation of blue noses and frosted ears it is probable, was never seen in the armory before. Young recruits listened to grey headed veterans as they told the story of the march of 20 years ago. The large garrison flag was flying from the roof and attracted attention from passers by. The wagons of the quartermaster gathered about the doors were being rapidly filled and there was altogether a scene of unusual bustle and activity. The order came to march, and the regiment filed out into the street and presented arms as the New Orleans Battalion marched past. There was a burst of melody from the band, and they were off down Broadway. The winds swept up from the lower bay with fierceness, and the themometer kept sinking until everything cracked. The sidewalks were crowded, nevertheless, and the regiment greeted with enthusiastic cheers. The music of the band died out by degrees, the musicians puffed and blew until their faces already red with the cold, became purple. Drum Major Jenks twirled his staff and fiercely pulled his mustache, and Bandmaster Joyce shook his cornet and swore till everything was blue. But it was of no use. The music was frozen! The special train waited at the foot of Liberty Street. The engine was gay with flags and streamers, and the railroad officials were smiling. The last words were said, good-bys spoken, and the train was off, There was ȧ grand series of salutes from two or three hundred torpedoes |