The Unknown Dead
A Decoration Day address
(1912) in Littleton, N.H.
by John Edgar Johnson. Capt. & A. Q. M., U. S.
V.
The leading purpose for which the Grand Army was
organized, as set forth in its first prospectus, was the annual decoration of
the graves of Union Soldiers. No such organization had ever existed before, or
could have existed before, for the simple reason that nowhere in history is
there any record of soldiers having been carefully buried in separate graves,
with head-stones to mark them, until the United States Government made such,
provision for its fallen heroes in the War for the Union. All the soldiers of
Alexander the Great; all the soldiers of Caesar; all of those of Charlemagne,
and of Napoleon were buried in unknown graves. Three thousand of General Washington's
soldiers died and were buried that winter at Valley Forge, but only two graves
are now pointed out there, and one of these is of a commissioned officer and
the other is of a dog. The round globe itself is a vast mausoleum to the
Unknown Dead — and old ocean is another.
John Edgar Johnson
But at the close of our Civil War the National
Government not only gathered upon the battlefields of the South the remains of
all Northern soldiers that could be identified, and had them re-interred in
various cemeteries reverently set apart for that purpose, but it also erected
in the great cemetery at Arlington Heights, near Washington, a profoundly
impressive monument to "The Unknown Dead," beneath which lie buried
the miscellaneous remains, impossible of identification, of a great number of
those who fell fighting for liberty and their native land.
I suppose it was that Memorial which suggested so
many of a like character all over the country. Visitors at Arlington invariably
stand with bowed head beside it, and the tears of a sympathetic nation have
fallen here as scarcely anywhere else on the continent. It appeals to the pity
and the pathos and the patriotism of the Nation.
And now I venture to call attention to a
distinction, not too fine perhaps, which may be drawn between “nameless graves"
and "unknown dead."
Uncertainty attaches itself more particularly to
the living than it does to the dead. Death is revelation. At death the scales
drop from our eyes. We leave our death-mask behind us when we pass out of the
body. Yonder we stand exposed and confessed to ourselves, to our fellow-men and
to our Creator.
We are sometimes asked if we believe we shall
recognize our friends in another world. Why we are never sure of them until we
get there.
A monument to an "Unknown God," or to
"Unknown Friends," I can understand, but a monument to the "Unknown
Dead" is a misnomer. What does it signify whether the dead are unknown to us or not. The sun in the heavens is
unknown to a mole in your garden. Here we see through a glass darkly; yonder
they see face to face. Here we know in part; there they know even as they are
known. The things we now see are fleeting shadows; the things seen beyond the
veil are the substantial facts and eternal verities of the universe.
We talk much, for instance, about the Grand Army.
Where is it? Is this the Grand Army; this corporal's guard of old men who once
a year feebly grope their way to the graves of their comrades all over the
country to decorate them with flowers? Ah, no! They are the Rear Guard of a
great host who have marched on ahead. The Grand Army has passed over. It has forded
the river and pitched its tents on the grand camping grounds beyond the grave.
There is a pious legend of an old monk who, wasted
by fasting, sought the chapel of his monastery one day late in Lent, and there,
with others, engaged in meditations. The walls of the chapel were covered with
frescoes illustrating its history from its foundation centuries before. Among
the figures there were not a few of those who had fought the good fight of
faith and purchased the halo of the saint.
Overcome by his austerities, the aged man half
fainted; passed, in fact, into the state of coma. He seemed to himself to be
disembodied. He saw his own figure and those of his companions around him, like
so many marble statues fixed and lifeless, while the frescoed images on the
walls appeared to be moving about and conversing with one another.
He was soon discovered in his swoon, and carried to
his cell, where he was resuscitated.
Now on Decoration Day old soldiers "dream
dreams and see visions." Everything inverts itself. The earth mirrors
itself in the skies. The Grand Army is on high, looking down upon us. They are
the living heroes, and we are the lifeless figures on the ground.
When, from time to time, the roll is called up
yonder, they who are there are reckoned "present." We who are here
are "absent" or "missing," or, perchance, we may be written
down as of whereabouts unknown or as unaccounted for.
But we, too, are moving onward and upward. We shall
soon join the main column.
And what a day it will be over there when the
"last survivor," as we lifeless mortals sometimes foolishly phrase
it, shall cross over, ascend the bank on the other side, and close the long roll
call with his "Here!"
Will it be in the feeble squeaking voice of an old
man — a Veteran — or will it be in trumpet tones, echoing and re-echoing along
all the arches of the universe?
I love to think of this "last man," clad
once more in immortal youth, mounting up on high, leading captivity captive,
falling into line and filling the last gap in the serried ranks of the reunited
Union Army. That will be a Reunion and Review the glory of which is beyond the
power of the imagination to conceive.
What a scene it will be! All heaven will be there
to behold it. In the foreground will stand Father Abraham waiting to clasp this
last man by the hand.
General Grant will be there, and the "silent
man" will find his tongue, at last and shout "Hosannah!" General
Sherman will be there — Old Tecumseh — who could talk almost as well as he could
fight. He will "make a few remarks," no doubt. General Sheridan will
be there— "Fighting Phil"—half horse and half man; as near a centaur as
anything ever was.
General Custer will be there. How well we remember
him at the Great Review at Washington at the close of the war. As he approached
the grandstand his horse ran away with him — back along the lines. He conquered
it, and when he came up again (his long, yellow hair streaming over his shoulders)
and saluted the President and the rest of the reviewing officers, what a yell
rent the air from that vast multitude. I can hear it now, although it is many a
day since I last heard even the roll of heaven's artillery in a thunderstorm.
That was, indeed the Grand Army.
But as the ranks thin here they swell yonder, and
the Final Review and Reunion is not far distant. “How the banners will wave on
that great day! How the flags will flutter! How the drums will roll! How the fifes
will shriek! How the bands will play "When Johnnie Comes Marching Home"!
Then "the peace which passeth all understanding"
will settle down upon the universe.
"The war drums will throb no longer and the battle
flags will be furled." There will be no more death and no more darkness,
but all will be life and light unending.
We shall see eye to eye finally and forever; and
there will be no "Unknown Dead," for we shall all have arrived, at
last, in "The Land of the Living."