An Artilleryman’s Diary–Jenkin Lloyd Jones

Chattanooga, Saturday, April 15. ‘Tis night, a beautiful day has just closed. But alas! a dark pall hangs over our camp. The soldier mourns the loss of the noblest American of the day. President Abraham Lincoln has fallen by the hands of a traitorous assassin. 2 P. M. we started out to graze, each and all lighthearted and merry. But lo! while out near the foot of Mission Ridge, the stars and stripes over Fort Creighton were seen to descend to half-mast, and the news reached us as if by magic of the fall of our noble president. A gloom was cast upon every one, and silently we returned to camp, still hoping for a contradiction. But it was too true. The scene that followed was one very seldom seen in the tented field. But a soldier is not, as many think, wholly void of feeling. All regarded the loss of him as of a near and dear relative. Terrible were the oaths and imprecations uttered through clenched teeth against the vile perpetrators. The black flag of extermination would be hailed with joy by the soldiers this moment as a just retaliation. Never before did I feel in favor of such measures, but now I think they deserve no other. The “extra” containing the short account of the occurrence has gone the rounds, read in each shanty. Traitors everywhere will rejoice over this, the crowned heads of Europe will greet it with joy, but their joy will come to grief. Republican principles will vindicate their superiority, and pass through this trial wiser and better for the tribulations they undergo.