One Hundred and Fifty-Five Years Ago: Palm Sunday and Peace

 

 

It is poor business measuring the mouldered ramparts and counting the silent guns, marking the deserted battlefields and decorating the grassy graves, unless we can learn from it some nobler lesson than to destroy.  Men write of this, as of other wars, as if the only thing necessary to be impressed upon the rising generation were the virtue of physical courage and contempt of death.  It seems to me that is the last thing we need to teach;  for since the days of John Smith in Virginia and the men of the Mayflower in Massachusetts, no generation of Americans has shown any lack of it.  From Louisburg to Petersburg-a hundred and twenty years, the full span of four generations-they have stood to their guns and been shot down in greater comparative numbers than any other race on earth.  In the war of secession there was not a State, not a county, probably not a town, between the great lakes and the gulf, that was not represented on fields where all that men could do with powder and steel was done and valor exhibited at its highest pitch…There is not the slightest necessity for lauding American bravery or impressing it upon American youth.  But there is the gravest necessity for teaching them respect for law, and reverence for human life, and regard for the rights of their fellow country-men, and all that is significant in the history of our country…These are simple lessons, yet they are not taught in a day, and some who we call educated go through life without mastering them at all.

Rossiter Johnson, Campfire and Battlefield, 1884

I have always thought it appropriate that the national nightmare we call the Civil War ended during Holy Week 1865.  Two remarkably decent men, Robert E. Lee and Ulysses S. Grant, began the process of healing so desperately needed for America on Palm Sunday, April 9, 1865 at Appomattox.  We take their decency for granted, but it is the exception and not the rule for the aftermath of civil wars in history.  The usual course would have been unremitting vengeance by the victors, and sullen rage by the defeated, perhaps eventually breaking out in guerilla war.  The end of the Civil War could so very easily have been the beginning of a cycle of unending war between north and south.  Instead, both Grant and Lee acted to make certain as far as they could that the fratricidal war that had just concluded would not be repeated.  All Americans owe those two men a large debt for their actions at Appomattox.

Grant in his memoirs wrote, “When Lee and I separated he went back to his lines and I returned to the house of Mr. McLean. Here the officers of both armies came in great numbers, and seemed to enjoy the meeting as much as though they had been friends separated for a long time while fighting battles under the same flag.”

Lee so appreciated the generosity of the terms of surrender given by Grant, that for the remainder of his life he would never allow a word of denigration about Grant to be spoken in his presence.

Near death as he finished his memoirs, Grant wrote this passage which sums up what he and Lee helped to accomplish:

“I feel that we are on the eve of a new era, when there is to be great harmony between the Federal and Confederate. I cannot stay to be a living witness to the correctness of this prophecy; but I feel it within me that it is to be so. The universally kind feeling expressed for me at a time when it was supposed that each day would prove my last, seemed to me the beginning of the answer to “Let us have peace.”   A striking indication that Grant’s words were coming true occurred shortly after he wrote them.  At his funeral his pallbearers were Union generals William Tecumseh Sherman and Phil Sheridan and Confederate generals Joseph Johnston and Simon Bolivar Buckner.  Union and Confederate officers rode together in carriages in Grant’s funeral procession.  The day was August 8, 1885.  What Grant and Lee planted 20 years ago was beginning to bear fruit.

 

Grant knew nothing of this, of course, just as he would know little or nothing of their later endeavors along that line. He rode on toward his headquarters tent, which had been found at last, along with his baggage, and pitched nearby. He had not gone far before someone asked if he did not consider the news of Lee’s surrender worth passing on to the War Department. Reining his horse in, he dismounted and sat on a large stone by the roadside to compose the telegram Lincoln would receive that night. By the time he remounted to ride on, salutes were beginning to roar from Union batteries roundabout, and he sent word to have them stopped, not only because he feared the warlike racket might cause trouble between the victors and the vanquished, both of them still with weapons in their hands, but also because he considered it unfitting. “The war is over,” he told his staff. “The rebels are our countrymen again.”

Shelby Foote, The Civil War:  A Narrative, volume III

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One Comment

  1. Father Abram Joseph Ryan wrote many poems, mostly reflecting his Catholic Faith. However, he is (or was) most remembered as the Poet-Preist of the Confederacy. His most famous poem was written after Lee’s surrender: THE CONQUERED BANNER
    “Furl that Banner, for ‘‘tis weary
    Round it staff ‘‘tis drooping dreary;
    Furl it, fold it, it is best;
    For there’s not a man to waive it,
    And there’s not a sword to save it,
    And there’s no one lave it
    In the blood that heroes gave it,
    And it does now scorn and brave it;
    Fuel it, hide it-let it rest!

    Take that banner down ! ‘‘tis tattered;
    Broken is its shaft and shattered;
    And the valiant hosts are scattered
    Over whom it floated high.
    Oh! ‘tis hard for us to fold it;
    Hard to think there’s none to hold it;
    Hard that those who once unrolled it
    Now must fold it with a sigh.

    Furl that banner! Furl it sadly!
    Once ten thousands hailed it gladly.
    And ten thousands wildly, madly,
    Swore it should forever waive;
    Swore that foeman’s sword should
    never
    Hearts like theirs entwined dissever,
    Till that flag should float forever
    O’er their freedom or their grave!
    Fuel it! For the hands that grasped it,
    And the hearts that fondly clasped it,
    Cold and dead are lying low,
    And that Banner-it is trailing!
    While around it sounds the wailing
    Of its people in their woe.

    For, though conquered, they adore it!
    Love the cold dead hands that bore it!
    Weep for those who fell before it!
    Pardon those who trailed and tore it!
    But, oh! Wildly they deplored it!
    Now who furl and fold it so.

    Furl that Banner! True, ‘‘tis gory,
    Yet ‘tis wreathed around with glory,
    And ‘twill live in song and story,
    Though it’s folds are in the dust.
    For it’s fame on brightest pages,
    Penned by poets and by sages,
    Shall go sounding down the ages-
    Furl it’s folds though now we must.

    Fuel that banner, softly, slowly!
    Treat it gently-it is Holy-
    For it droops above the dead.
    Touch it not-unfold it never,
    Let it droop there, furled forever,
    For it’s peoples hopes are dead.”
    Father Ryan died in 1886 and is buried in the Catholic Cemetery in Mobile, Alabama. I commend to your all his poetry, which deals primarily with religious subjects. A Blessed Easter to all.

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