My acquaintance with General Grant covered the period of his last illness, during which I was honored with his confidence as one of his consulting doctors. Brought in such close association with him, I had many opportunities for obtaining an insight into his remarkable personal character. Brave as he had been upon the battlefield, his courage in facing death from an incurable cancer was not only a revelation, but an inspiration.
The General realized from the first that his case was a hopeless one, and he became strangely calm, submissively heroic, more masculine than ever before and philosophically determined. The impression left on those who watched his long and anxious struggle with never be forgotten. He was a hero in the highest sense of the word.
General Grant resignedly contemplated the inevitable, knowing that death was near, and he realized the dreadful fact that there was nothing left in life for him but suffering. His pain was acute and unceasing. He bowed submissively to this death sentence without a murmur. He conquered his own instinctive love for his existence in an effort to care for his family. He lifted humanity to the highest and purest form in unselfish sacrifice for others. It was in this light that Grant presented himself to those who stood beside him in his last great battle.
The only circumstances which appeared to make his illness bearable were the sympathetic help of Mrs. Grant and his children, and his ability to occupy his mind in preparation for his book, which was a monumental task, even for a well man.
General Grant had perfect coolness in all things. He was never ruffled, hurried, angry or short with anyone. He had the gentlest disposition, like that of an unspoiled young girl. The phase of his character which was most striking to me was the cool and matter-of-fact manner in which he would discuss the nature and progress of his cancer, and his hope of a speedy release from his constant suffering. During the consultations he would carefully count his pulse with his watch before him and note the apparent changes in his condition without the least concern.
He had a strange composure about him, always uncomplaining, even in the midst of wrenching pain. Although everything was done by the family to keep him in ignorance of his real condition, he would insist on reading the newspapers and would freely comment on their authenticity. Once, while talking to him on the porch at Mt. McGregor, he wrote on his ever-ready pad, -for then he couldn't even speak - this startling item, " The Times has been killing me off for a year. If it does not change, it will get it right in time."
On several occasions while at Mt. McGregor, he would attempt to unburden the weight on his mind through the medium of pencil and paper. He did not want his wife distressed or worried about him and that bothered him greatly. He wanted always to spare her any grief on account of his suffering, but that was not practicable or even possible.
The other elements in his character that were striking was the fact he was a naturally polite man. With those who had gained his confidence he was always friendly, frank and earnest. When not suffering too much, he could be quite humorous and his sense of the absurd was marked. Underlying, however, every word and act there was such an instinctive deference to the thoughts and opinions of others that it was difficult to realize his real greatness. It was always necessary for me to remind myself that Grant was the principal factor in the scene he was relating. There was a complete absence of conceit with him. He was modest in the extreme.
During his final illness there was some discussion in the newspapers as to whether he received General Lee's sword at Appomattox. I asked him about it and he simply answered in the negative. But what surprised me most was the innocently modest manner in which he referred to his own part in that memorable conference. He wrote on his pad, "When I met General Lee, he was in a full new uniform, and appeared so well that I felt a little out of place in my ordinary field suit."
While he was writing his book he would allude to his greatest battles with no more show of personal pride in them as if he had never even been present. His only concern appeared to be that the reader should understand what he wrote. With that end in view he would read descriptions of battles more like an earnest school boy striving to read aloud than a great general making history.
