Davis was a prisoner at Fortress Monroe, and while the question of his trial for treason was being fiercely debated in Washington, the sentiment of the Confederacy naturally concentrated upon its late President.  He was, as the single prisoner, the surviving emblem of the contest.  His vanities, irritability, and blunders were forgotten.  It was natural that, under the circumstances, his people, the people of the South, should hold in memory only the fact that he had been their leader and that he had through four strenuous years borne the burdens of leadership with unflagging zeal, with persistent courage, and with an almost foolhardy hopefulness.  He had given to the Confederacy the best of his life, and he was entitled to the adoration that the survivors of the Confederacy gave to him as representing the ideal of the lost cause.

The feeling with which Lincoln was regarded by the men in the front, for whom through the early years of their campaigning he had been not only the leader but the inspiration, was indicated by the manner in which the news of his death was received.  I happened myself on the day of those sad tidings to be with my division in a little village just outside of Goldsborough, North Carolina.  We had no telegraphic communication with the North, but were accustomed to receive despatches about noon each day, carried across the swamps from a station through which connection was made with Wilmington and the North.  In the course of the morning, I had gone to the shanty of an old darky whom I had come to know during the days of our sojourn, for the purpose of getting a shave.  The old fellow took up his razor, put it down again and then again lifted it up, but his arm was shaking and I saw that he was so agitated that he was not fitted for the task.  “Massa,” he said, “I can’t shave yer this mornin’.”  “What is the matter?” I inquired.  “Well,” he replied, “somethin’s happened to Massa Linkum.”  “Why!” said I, “nothing has happened to Lincoln.  I know what there is to be known.  What are you talking about?” “Well!” the old man replied with a half sob, “we coloured folks—­we get news or we get half news sooner than you-uns.  I dun know jes’ what it is, but somethin’ has gone wrong with Massa Linkum.”  I could get nothing more out of the old man, but I was sufficiently anxious to make my way to Division headquarters to see if there was any news in advance of the arrival of the regular courier.  The coloured folks were standing in little groups along the village street, murmuring to each other or waiting with anxious faces for the bad news that they were sure was coming.  I found the brigade adjutant and those with him were puzzled like myself at the troubled minds of the darkies, but still sceptical as to the possibility of any information having reached them which was not known through the regular channels.