I'd like to tell you about the greatest conflict our nation ever fought, the War Between the States. Between 4 and 5 million men saw service in this war, and 625,000 men died during its brutal course. More men died during the conflict than in all of our nations wars combined, from the Revolution to the Persian Gulf. It is probably the most studied conflict of our nation, as the causes, tactics, and strategies are still debated in the 1,000+ books that are published each year. If the old adage that, "those who fail to learn the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them" is true, then that level of interest is warranted, for another reprise of the conflict with today's technologically lethal battlefields would lead to an even greater bloodbath.
I want to mainly make my points by telling stories. Stories from the War Between the States are an easy way to capture the emotion, the passion, and the irony. We will begin with a tale about the South's greatest soldier, General Robert E. Lee.
On May 6, 1864 the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia found itself locked in mortal combat with the numerically superior Union Army of the Potomac in the tangled forest in Virginia called The Wilderness. After one day of combat between the lead elements of the two armies, the situation stalemated with both sides fought out and waiting for reinforcements to arrive. Holding the line against a vast blue host was the battered III Corps commanded by General A. P. Hill. Hill was told that the I Corps, commanded by General James Longstreet was due to arrive before morning and that he would be relieved on the battle line.
General Hill was told by one of his subordinates that the Corps should entrench and wait for the attack just in case the anticipated reinforcements failed to arrive. Hill disagreed and refused to give the order to gird for the attack. He was about to learn an important lesson in military planning: That which is planned to occur is guaranteed not to happen, while that which is declared impossible is disastrously imminent.
Sure enough, Longstreet was delayed in departure, and failed to arrive by first light, when a Union juggernaut rolled through the Wilderness. Caught unprepared, the Army of Northern Virginia did something that it had seldom done: it fled the field. Struggling to fall back, to find comrade, and to reform. the veteran army gave way quickly before the Union II Corps commanded by General Winfield Scott Hancock.
Longstreet's men began to arrive on the field just as this disaster got underway. The lead element was Hood's Texas Brigade. From the former swollen ranks of 5,000 Texans, only 800 remained. But they were lean, they were mean, they were tough. In short, they were soldiers, like only a Texas can be. They had marched all night long, 35 grueling miles on a hot spring day. As they marched into the dawn's early light, one of the veterans of the brigade thought that the sunset reminded him of the Red Sun of Austerlitz, the famous omen that had lead another famous soldier, Napolean Bonaparte, to launch his operations on the field of one of his greatest victories. They arrived on the field as the army to their front gave way.
On the field, General Lee did what he could to stem the rout, but there was little to be done. He found a single battalion of artillery and directed their fire into the advancing Union vanguard. Across a small clearing only a few hundred yards wide, 5,000 Union soldiers milled about as their officers brought them on line, fussed with their alignment, and prepared to move them forward. When that order was given, Lee saw little hope that they would be stopped. He looked for something, anything, that he could do to turn the tide. Repeatedly, he looked back in the smoke to see if Longstreet was coming up. Repeatedly he saw nothing. Finally, among all the other soldiers streaming to the rear, he saw a lone soldier moving forward, then another and another. The men came near and began to group and form up. He asked what unit they were with. "Texas Boys!" was the reply.
Lee knew them well. Hood's Texas Brigade is sometimes called Lee's Grenadier Guard, his shock troops, the men he relied upon in the tightest places. He took off his wide-brimmed hat and yelled, "Hurrah for Texas!" His men had never seen him act this way. As they completed their alignment, the Texans were ordered forward by their commander, Brigadier General John Gregg with the command, "Attention Texas Brigade! The eyes of General Lee are upon you! Forward... March! The Texans were shocked to see Lee ride into position in their front. It was obvious to all of them that Lee himself, their beloved commander, intended to lead them in this attack, which was clearly suicidal.
The stage is now set for what was arguably the most electrifying moment of the war. The Texas Brigade, without orders, slacked its pace, not wanting to see Lee accompany them on the attack. From one throat a cry arose, "Lee to the Rear!", and it was echoed again and again, through the Virginia countryside. One bold private even stepped forward and grabbed the reins of Lee's horse, Traveller. Gregg rode to Lee and assured him that his men would drive the Yankees off if only he would ride to the rear and safety. Finally, a kind staff officer arrived with what was probably a little white lie about Lee being needed elsewhere, giving the stately Virginian a face-saving compromise. He rode to the rear, and the Texans again swept forward. As they moved out, Lee stood in his stirrups and yelled, "Texans always move them!" In ten minutes of savage combat, over half the Texans were killed or wounded, but they bought Lee the time he needed to set up a devastating flank attack that Hancock later said "rolled me up like a wet blanket."
As he rode to the rear, he encountered the next brigade, from Alabama. Upon learning their identities, Lee said "God Bless the Alabamians!" They asked him for orders, and they were simple: "Just try to keep up with the Texans."
It is in remembrance of men such as these; whose devotion to duty was matched only by their love for their beloved commander. This is why we remember.
Confederate Nurse Pheobe Pember is a well remembered nurse who toiled in the hellish environs of the Chimbarozo Hospital in Richmond. In her memoirs, A Southern Women's Story, she told of a patient in her ward. A young boy of about twenty, he had been a patient for many months recovering from a wound in his thigh. One night, she was alarmed to see blood spurting in jets from his wound. Quickly, she ran to the boy's side, and stuck a finger into the spurting wound to staunch his swiftly flowing blood. She summoned a doctor, who gave a grim diagnosis.
The doctor told Pember that a bone fragment had broken loose and severed the femoral artery. He was beyond the skills of any doctor of that age to save. The doctor then left, leaving the boy and Pember alone.
"How long will I live?," asked the boy.
"As long as I hold my finger here." said Pember.
A long moment passed as the boy contemplated his fate, and made his peace. After a long pause, the boy quietly said, "You can take your finger away now."
Pember stood horrified, but could not bring herself to remove her finger. Finally, trembling from the exertion, Pheobe Pember, for the only time in her entire career, despite the horrors she had seen and was yet to see, as a Confederate Army nurse, fainted.
It is for men, and boys, such as these, that we remember.
In Petersburg, Virginia, any excavation of the soil can be an adventure. One housewife recently was shocked to discover a human skull in her backyard as she did some yard work. Calling the police, it was soon determined that the skull, and accompanying body, were from a long dead soldier of the War Between the States. An excavation was conducted, and the body, of a young Confederate soldier, was exhumed. The skull was taken to the woman's family dentist, who promised to examine the teeth to determine the age of the soldier.
The woman's husband arrived home and discovered his wife in tears. He asked why, and was told that the dentist had just called to say how old the soldier was.
"Well, what did he say," asked the husband, "How old was he?"
In a soft, weeping voice, this Virginia housewife said, "Fourteen."
It is for this unknown Confederate soldier that we remember.
In the Hall of History in the Museum of the North Carolina Historical Commission in Raleigh, hangs a message written on the battlefield in the battle of Gettysburg. It is one of the most stirring message ever written, penned with the life blood of Colonel Isaac Erwin Avery of the Sixth Regiment, North Carolina State Troops.
Colonel Avery was mortally wounded in the late afternoon of the second battle of Gettysburg. Replacing his superior officer who had already been wounded, Colonel Avery was commanding Hoke's Brigade in the charge up Cemetery Heights when he fell. Shot from his horse and aware that he was dying far from his comrades, Colonel Avery's first thought was of his aged father, Isaac Erwin Avery, Sr., who lived near Morganton, N.C.
The soldier's right hand was paralyzed from his wound, but, by using his left hand, he drew a scrap of coarse paper from his pocket. Plucking a twig from a nearby bush, he dipped it into his swiftly flowing blood, and scrawled the message, which was addressed to his friend, Major Samuel McDowell Tate. The note reached the elder Avery a week after his gallant son had been buried on the battlefield.
Thousands have since gazed upon Colonel Avery's "message from the grave," and other thousands have received a surge of inspiration upon hearing it recounted in sermons and stories.
On the occasion of the unveiling of a statue to Sir Walter Raleigh, the Englishman for whom the North Carolina capital was named, Theodore Roosevelt, then President of the United States, stood before a distinguished gathering in the Hall of History. In his big, expressive hands, the President held the little scrap of yellow, blood-stained paper.
Slowly he read aloud the almost illegible message. His hands trembled, his eyes filled with tears; he became almost speechless with emotion. Then as if the little paper were some holy thing, he passed it to Lord James Bryce, Britain's minister to the United States. The English minister read the paper, studied it for a moment, and passed it back. "President Roosevelt," he said, "we have nothing to compare with this in the British Museum."
A great hush fell upon the audience for a moment, as silence paid tribute to a courage that rose far above sectionalism and beyond the bounds of nations. The two statesmen who stood reading this note saw only a youthful colonel leading his men into battle, dashing so far ahead of them that when he fell, dying , he found himself alone. They cared not whether he lived north or south, whether he was born American or English. They knew he lived a soldier and died a hero. They saw, without being told, that the ink he used was his own blood, and his pen some chance twig that lay in reach of the left hand, with which he laboriously wrote.
"Tell my father I died with my face to the enemy."
The simple little message, read aloud by the American President, burned its way into every pulsing heart. It is a sentence which sums up all of life's battles into one triumphant, grand Amen.
"People from all parts of the world," remarked the curator of the Hall of History, "have come to read this message. Besides Roosevelt, Presidents Taft and Wilson visited the Hall to see it. Many and many a sermon has been preached on it."
"I died with my face to the enemy."
What more could any son say or any father wish to hear?
It is for the heroism of Confederate Soldiers like Colonel Isaac Erwin Avery, Jr. that we remember.
This is one example of that is worthy of remembrance of our Confederate ancestors. No nation has ever set its young men off to war with less to offer them, or with less anticipation of reward. Their cause is a study of heroism, steadfast devotion to duty, and unparalleled suffering. In 1861 and 1862, the new Confederate States of America attempted to shape and mold a smattering of militia units and volunteers into a fighting machine capable of defending their lengthy frontier and coastlines. Units from across the south answered the initial call to arms, but it was only enough to stalemate the North. The Confederate government then began to debate conducting a draft or conscription, something that had never been done before in these United States. The debate raged in the Confederate Congress, and while it did, recruiting officers did a brisk trade across the South. The reason was simple: Volunteer units went to war with their friends and neighbors, and elected their officers, while the drafted conscripts were to be completely at the whim of the government.
Here in Texas, Colonel Middleton Tate Johnson of Johnson's Station, now called Arlington, gained the necessary permission to recruit a regiment of troops. He was given little guidance. He found that most men were only willing to enlist for one year, rather than three or for the duration. He also found that no self respecting Texan would enlist in the infantry as long as his horse still drew breath. So Johnson began to raise a regiment, the 14th Texas Cavalry, a twelve-month outfit. This raised the ire of the Confederate Inspector General for Texas who complained bitterly about Johnson's activities and even mentioned that Johnson was attempting to raise an entire Brigade of cavalry. He recommended that Johnson be stopped from raising anymore 12 month cavalry. This was not done, for Johnson soon had five regiments of cavalry under his command, the 14th, 15th, 16th, 17th, and 18th Texas Cavalry.
After the disaster at Pea Ridge, the men of Johnson's Brigade were ordered to Arkansas when that state's forces were ordered to Tennessee. The 15th got a brutal introduction to combat when a portion of the regiment, armed mostly with squirrel rifles and shotguns, charged a Kansas cavalry outfit armed with Enfield rifled muskets. The charge was led by Captain Thomas J. Johnson, a former Texas Ranger, Mexican War veteran, and the son of Colonel Johnson. The men discovered the futility of fighting with shotguns against rifles as several saddles were emptied. Among the seven empty saddles was that of Captain Johnson, whose body was returned to Tarrant County for burial.
When the Confederate Army found itself with a surplus of cavalry, and a shortage of infantry it discovered that the fastest way to make a cavalryman fight on foot is to take is horse away from him. The entire brigade was dismounted, trained as infantrymen, and given rifled muskets to replace their shotguns, carbines, and six-shooters. In this capacity, the 15th, 17th, and 18th Texas Cavalry Regiments (Dismounted) found themselves defending a position called Fort Hindman, or Arkansas Post, in January of 1863. The 5,000 man garrison found themselves attacked by a 30,000 man forces commanded by a then obscure Union general named William T. Sherman.
Captured after a day-long fight, the men were imprisoned in Illinois, where a combination of cold, pneumonia, smallpox, and dysentery culled one-third of their number. Exchanged after three months, they were sent by train and steamer to City Point, Virginia where they were soon sent to join the Confederate Army forming in Mississippi to relieve the embattled garrison at Vicksburg. Enroute, their orders were changed, sending them instead to Tullahoma, Tennessee where they joined the Confederate Army of Tennessee.
The marriage of this army and these Texans was a good one, for they seemed destined for each other. The catalyst for the marriage was an Irish immigrant, turned Confederate General Patrick Cleburne. Cleburne was reputedly the only general in the army who was willing to command the men, since they were stigmatized by their surrender in Arkansas.
They fought for the first time in a large engagement with Cleburne, at the Battle of Chickamauga. A few weeks later at Tunnel Hill, at the end of Missionary Ridge, the Texas Brigade held its position against a Union attack that outnumbered them 14-to-1. After the retreat from Missionary Ridge, the Texas Brigade was part of the army's rear guard that repulsed the Yankee pursuit in fighting that was sometimes hand-to-hand at Ringgold Gap, Georgia. The unit saw heavy action during all of the struggles of the Atlanta Campaign, but in particular, distinguished itself in the Battle of Pickett's Mill and the Battle of Atlanta. It saved the Confederate position at Jonesboro, when it counterattacked and sealed a penetration of the Confederate line. In the Tennessee Campaign, the Texas Brigade saw a virtual swan song at the Battle of Franklin, when it went into frontal attack with 1104 men and emerged with just over 400. Generals Cleburne and Granbury, the Texas Brigade's commander, were killed in this fruitless assault.
General Patrick Cleburne is one of the most interesting, yet virtually unsung heroes of the conflict. An outstanding military leader, he seemed to invariably bring success to his portion of the battlefield, even though losses elsewhere on the field often overshadowed his men's success. A native of Ireland, he had lived in the U.S. for barely a decade when the war began. Surrounded by slave owners and having close contact daily with slaves in his hometown of Helena, Arkansas, he never became a slave owner, though he was a successful attorney and a man of means. He was also a man of vision who saw the futility of the south's struggle as early as April of 1863. In simple mathematic terms, the war had become a war of attrition. About that time at Chancellorsville, one of the South's greatest victories, about 11,000 Northerners fell killed or wounded, while about 10,000 Southerners fell. However, in percentages, 11% of the Union Army, and nearly 19% of the Confederate Army were removed from the rolls. With a 4-to1 disadvantage in population, it was a loss rate the South could not afford to replace. Cleburne saw this, and by January 2, 1864, was moved to propose that 300,000 of the best and bravest slaves in the South be armed and inducted into the Southern Army in exchange for their freedom, the freedom of their families, and the eventual and reasonable freedom of their entire race.
In his proposal, a document called Cleburne's Memorial, Cleburne cited a compelling reason for taking whatever action necessary to save the Southern Cause:
Every man ought to endeavor to understand the meaning of subjugation before it is too late. We can give but a faint idea when we say it means the loss of all we now hold most sacred - slaves and all other personal property, lands, homesteads, liberty, justice, safety, pride, manhood. It means that the history of this heroic struggle will be written by the enemy; that our youth will be taught by Northern school teachers; will learn from Northern school books their version of the war; will be impressed by all the influences of history and education to regard our gallant dead as traitors, or maimed veterans as fit objects for derision.
Cleburne's proposal was far ahead of its time in the South. Just before his death at the Battle of Franklin, he was gratified to see a bill encompassing much of what he suggested introduced into the Confederate Congress. It was finally passed, but the Confederacy was in its death throes when it went into effect. The only telling effect of Cleburne's proposal was that he was at least once denied promotion to corps command when men not only his junior, but not as skillful, were promoted to higher positions.
So why do we remember? Contemporary accounts of the conflict prove that men fought for a variety of reasons: patriotic motives; to defend their homes, or to preserve the Union, political beliefs such as state's rights, economic issues, sectional issues, and a small percentage on both sides fought either to preserve or abolish Southern slavery. In the past thirty or so years, the fad among historians has been to prove that slavery was The Cause, The Primary Cause, or The underlying cause. Much like a chicken or the egg argument, it is easy to make a case that any one of the things I just mentioned is a cause, but proving it to be the cause is more difficult since you can't prove that the others weren't the cause.
The historical community who devote their efforts to studying this conflict gnash their teeth and bicker and argue about THE cause, and always attempt to end their arguments by labeling the other side as "Revisionist History." But let me read you a quote from General Cleburne. He was writing a letter to one brother who lived in Kentucky, about another brother who lived in Ohio.
"I received your letter and one from Joseph. I find we are each on a different side, Joe for Lincoln, you for a neutrality that I believe can never be obtained. I am with the South in life or in death, in victory or defeat. I never owned a Negro and care nothing for them, but these people have been my friends, and have stood up to me on all occasions. In addition to this, I believe the North is about to wage a brutal and unholy war on a people who have done them no wrong, in violation of the constitution and the fundamental principles of the government. They no longer acknowledge that all government derives its validity from the consent of the governed."
While some may claim this to be indicative of the revisionist or apologetic version of the war where Southerners claim the war was fought over slavery, a peek at the date will indicate that its writer, Patrick Cleburne, penned its thoughts on May 7, 1861, when the war was about three weeks old.
Another southerner had this to say. A lieutenant of the 47th Alabama, He was a farmer by occupation and in 1862 wrote to his wife,
"I confess that I gave you up with reluctance. Yet I love my country dearly. The war in which we are unfortunately involved has been forced upon us. We have asked for nothing but to be let alone. I intend to discharge my duty to my country and to my God." Like many others, he too made the supreme sacrifice to fulfill that duty, and never returned to see the wife and two children he missed so much.
Why do we remember? We have a duty to God, given to us in the Ten Commandments, to honor our fathers. By logical extension, this would seem to apply to all of our forebears. Those who revel in the heritage and history of their ancestors are justifiably proud of their great-great-grandfathers participation in the greatest conflict our nation has ever fought. Why should I be inclined to sit idly by when someone suggests that my ancestor, who was dirt-poor farmer from the Ozarks in Arkansas, fought to preserve slavery? What should I do about that vein that pops out in my forehead when someone suggests that he was a traitor? The answer is to learn and to educate.
The fact is that no Confederate leader was tried for treason, much less convicted. When a trial was contemplated for Jefferson Davis, Supreme Court Chief Justice Salmon Chase advised strongly against. He knew that Davis's defense was center around the constitutionality of secession. Chase, in a letter to President Andrew Johnson said, "The war was fought to determine that secession was illegal. Let it remain illegal." Jefferson Davis was released from his dungeon prison shortly thereafter.
This passage probably best sums up our reverence for our Confederate ancestors.
"The Confederate soldiers were our kinfolk and our heroes. We testify to the country our enduring fidelity to their memory. We commemorate their valor and devotion. There were some things that were not surrendered at Appomattox. We did not surrender our rights in history, nor was it one of the conditions of surrender that unfriendly lips should be suffered to tell the story of that war or that unfriendly hands should write the epitaphs of the Confederate dead. We have a right to teach our children the true history of that war, the causes that led up to it, and the principles involved."
Senator Edward W. Carmack, 1903
Several organizations are active in the United States to preserve the history of this conflict. The Sons of Confederate Veterans is 25,000 strong and is the fastest-growing heritage organization in the United States. We have 48 camps in the State of Texas, with 12 in the North Texas area. We conduct a variety of educational, historical, and memorial endeavors both locally, and at a state and national level. In 1906, we were given a charge by General Stephen Dill Lee, who was then the commander of the United Confederate Veterans.
"To you, Sons of Confederate Veterans, we submit the vindication of the cause for which we fought. To your strength will be given the defense of the Confederate soldier's good name, the guardianship of his history, the emulation of his virtues, the perpetuation of those principles which he loved and which made him glorious, and which you also cherish. Remember it is your duty to see that the true history of the South is presented to future generations."
The United Daughters of the Confederacy likewise have about 25,000 members nationwide, with 3,000 in the State of Texas and conduct a variety of activities to support their five goals: Historical, Memorial, Educational, Benevolent, and Patriotic. They have 83 chapters across Texas, with over 14 in the North Texas Area.
History has a way of changing with the times. Even recently, World War II veterans got their dander up when the history regarding the atomic bombing underwent revision at the Smithsonian Institute. By the time that event was completely rewritten, a letter of apology had just about been sent to the Japanese emperor. I can imagine the type of response that that news item met with any survivors of Pearl Harbor.
Why do we remember? For the anonymous soldier who grabbed Traveler reins at the Battle of the Wilderness, we will remember.
For the twenty year old soldier dying in a Richmond Hospital on a blood-soaked mattress, we will remember.
For the fourteen year old soldier, killed in Petersburg, but who is known only to God, we will remember.
For a mortally wounded Confederate Colonel, who thinking of his father, writes a farewell in his own blood, that we will remember.
So I ask all of you, as we celebrate our holidays that commemorate our nations veterans, please don't forget Johnny Reb. Like all the others in our nation's history, he was only fighting for what he believed to be right. The Union General who received the surrender at Appomattox, General Joshua Chamberlain, brought his men to present arms in recognition of the heroism and sacrifices of the weeping Southerners who stacked their muskets and laid down their bloodstained banners. He considered it a salute to a worthy opponent.
At the 50th anniversary of the Battle of Gettysburg, groups of tottering old veterans reenacted Pickett's Charge. Forming in ranks, the Southerners again approached the stone wall, the copse of trees, the angle. Behind it, the grim Northerners again waited. This time though, the sound of the muskets and cannons was gone, and there was no smoke, there were no shrieks of the wounded and dying. Only the sound of their pant legs swishing through the grass of the battlefield. Their ranks were thinned, not by bullets, but by age. The two forces met again at the top. Instead of the titanic clash of arms that had resounded 50 years before, the old veterans, the blue and the gray, reached out to one another, and clasped hands in friendship. That is why we remember.
This war, unlike any our nation ever knew, aroused unparalleled passions. To many the war still rages, bringing to the surface a raging hatred of their fellow Americans. But one need look only at the words of two of the South's greatest leaders to see that such feelings would not be their wish. General Robert E. Lee said "I have fought against the people of the North because I believed they were seeking to wrest from the South its dearest right. But I have never cherished toward them bitter or vindictive feelings, and I have never seen the day when I did not pray for them." President Jefferson Davis said, "the past is dead: let it bury it's dead, its hopes and its aspirations; before you lies the future - a future full of golden promise."
Written/edited by James Dark of Arlington, Texas