In the wake of the terrible conflict lay broken lives, piles of dead men “groaning for burial,” and the smoldering bricks and gaunt, solitary chimneys of a Southland laid waste. In its wake lay, too, stacked in piles like cordwood, or in armory chests of twenty muskets, twenty bayonets, with appendages, the most fantastic conglomeration of assorted small arms ever to be collected together on the face of the earth. Half these were Union arms; but the immense Confederate ordnance establishment fell almost entirely into the hands of the Federal Army in . The polyglot minions of Peter the Hermit, slashing through the ranks of Saracens to protect the Holy Sepulchre from infidel defilement, never carried a more varied lot of arms and weapons.
You place me in a most embarrassing position, Mr. Secretary. How is that, Mr. Wilkeson? the gaunt-faced Penn sylvanian queried, the lines of his expression amplified by the fatigue and, somewhat, disappointment with which he laid down his role as Secretary of War for Mr. Lincoln. Because, Mr. Cameron, the newspaperman re sponded, your contract for rifle muskets with the Eagle Manufacturing Company of Mansfield, Connecticut is for only 25,000 arms, and my friends there, whom I induced to engage in this business in expectation of your issuing a further order, as your assistant Mr. Scott assured me you would, will be sorely embarrassed in their operations on this small amount. Indeed this is bad news to me, Mr. Wilkeson, War Secretary Simon Cameron sympathetically observed, as he stuffed papers from his desk drawer into a large portfolio, scanning them briefly, consigning some to the waste basket. But as you can see, I am leaving office today; I believe Mister Stanton, who repla
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