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chapter three THE LAST MAN For the past four years, the cry “On to Richmond!” had been heard throughout the North. And for the past four years, the cry had gone unheeded. Now, with the coveted prize finally in the Union’s grip, many realized that the grand goal had been illusory. When the shouting , speech-making, and band music had finally faded, most soon understood that it was not the city of Richmond that had thrashed the federal army at Cold Harbor, Spotsylvania, the Wilderness, and Fredericksburg, nor was it the capital of the Confederacy that had routed the Union army at Chancellorsville, Second Manassas, and the Seven Days; it was Robert E. Lee and his magnificent Army of Northern Virginia that had done all these things. Richmond, Charleston, Atlanta, and every other city in the South might be stormed, but as long as the legendary “Gray Fox” marched and fought, the issue would always be in doubt. Thus, one week after Richmond’s fall, when news from Appomattox Court House reached the North, those who thought they had no more energy to celebrate quickly found out they were wrong. Unlike the earlier news, which arrived at midday on Monday, the latter came in the dead of night on Sunday, April 9, 1865, when most Americans were asleep. At tiny Ottawa, Illinois, J. D. Caton was one of the few citizens still awake at 10 p.m. The wealthy judge was also one of the few men in America to have his very own telegraph office in his home. When he heard the startling news clattering over his receiver, Caton, oblivious to all dignity and decorum, ran pell-mell to a neighbor’s house. In turn, the two excited men dashed away like schoolboys to the home of another friend. Together the three decided that the swiftest way to rouse the town was to illuminate their residences, which all stood on the north bank, 17 18 the darkest dawn high above the Illinois River. In twenty minutes the three homes on the bluff were ablaze with hundreds of sparkling candles. The owner of a house on the opposite shore soon understood, then responded in kind. From that point on, revealed a local correspondent, “the news spread like wild-fire.”1 Eighty miles to the east, the word raced through Chicago with even greater speed. Within minutes of hearing the news, an estimated one hundred thousand men, women, and children ignored the late hour and the Sabbath and jammed the public square to “shout, sing, laugh, dance, huzza, and cry for very gladness.”2 “As we write (1 a. m.),” a newsman milling in the crowd reported, “a band is promenading the streets playing national music, and all along our thoroughfares resound the shouts and cheers of an enthusiastic and excited multitude. Cannons are roaring, rockets are blazing, bonfires are burning.”3 At midnight, those locked in deep sleep in New York City were suddenly jarred awake. “Surrender of Lee’s army, ten cents and no mistake,” shouted newsboys “in their shrillest tones.” Despite a cold drizzle, those in the metropolis were “electrified” by the news and rushed into the streets.4 With the dawn, far from diminishing, the demonstrations increased in frenzy as those who had slept soundly throughout the night joined the celebration. “The news . . . is from Heaven. . . . I wanted to laugh and I wanted to cry,” admitted poet James Russell Lowell.5 In Detroit, the outburst of emotion was, said a viewer, “the most enthusiastic and joyous ever known here.”6 “The city is perfectly wild,” echoed another man from Milwaukee, “no market, no business and no nothing but rejoicing. . . . Everybody is intoxicated with joy and other ingredients.”7 With a telegraph linking the continent, those in the Far West heard the news almost as quickly as those in the East. Despite the rain, villagers laughed and danced on the muddy streets of Kansas.8 In Denver, hundreds braved the snow and cold to celebrate with bonfires and band music.9 In far-flung Portland, Oregon, the greatest celebration in the city’s brief history was staged.10 And in the already tumultuous mining camp of Big Bend, Nevada, nearly the entire population went on a “big bender” upon receipt of the news. One exception was an old prospector never known to have drawn a sober breath. When pressed by shouting friends to join and “liquor up,” the old man fought free. “No, boys, no,” he cried...

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