Over the past few weeks, I have invested several late evenings re-editing those of my web site pictures which seemed less than inspiring (www.brotherswar.com). Obsessing over the minutia of the site becomes an increasingly common activity during the months when the lack of foliage deadens my enthusiasm for picture taking. Although re-editing occasionally proves a frustrating endeavor, each minor success brought with it the corresponding happy reminiscences of the brief but blissful moments exploring the now peaceful battlefields. Considering the impact I hoped each picture might have, I tested combinations of color, contrast, and tone, hoping to create a realistic window into the bloody fields of our past. As much as I enjoyed the work, an uneasy presence knocked at the edges of my contentment. The question grew. By expressing my admiration for the men who fought and love of the fields upon which our nation grew, have I contributed to an overly-romanticized, sanitized image of war?
Walt Whitman’s words came to mind. In his seminal work "Specimen Days", the great American poet said of the war through which he had just lived, "Future years will never know the seething hell and the black infernal background of countless minor scenes and interiors, (not the official surface courteousness of the Generals, not the few great battles) of the Secession war; and it is best they should not—the real war will never get in the books." Still, he offered more than a small glimpse as he spoke of the dead.
"The Million Dead, Too, Summ’d Up
THE DEAD in this war—there they lie, strewing the fields and woods and valleys and battle-fields of the south—Virginia, the Peninsula—Malvern hill and Fair Oaks—the banks of the Chickahominy—the terraces of Fredericksburgh—Antietam bridge—the grisly ravines of Manassas—the bloody promenade of the Wilderness—the varieties of the strayed dead, (the estimate of the War department is 25,000 national soldiers kill’d in battle and never buried at all, 5,000 drown’d—15,000 inhumed by strangers, or on the march in haste, in hitherto unfound localities—2,000 graves cover’d by sand and mud by Mississippi freshets, 3,000 carried away by caving-in of banks, &c.,)—Gettysburgh, the West, Southwest—Vicksburgh—Chattanooga—the trenches of Petersburgh—the numberless battles, camps, hospitals everywhere—the crop reap’d by the mighty reapers, typhoid, dysentery, inflammations—and blackest and loathesomest of all, the dead and living burial-pits, the prison-pens of Andersonville, Salisbury, Belle-Isle, &c., (not Dante’s pictured hell and all its woes, its degradations, filthy torments, excell’d those prisons)—the dead, the dead, the dead—our dead—or South or North, ours all, (all, all, all, finally dear to me)—or East or West—Atlantic coast or Mississippi valley—somewhere they crawl’d to die, alone, in bushes, low gullies, or on the sides of hills—(there, in secluded spots, their skeletons, bleach’d bones, tufts of hair, buttons, fragments of clothing, are occasionally found yet)—our young men once so handsome and so joyous, taken from us—the son from the mother, the husband from the wife, the dear friend from the dear friend—the clusters of camp graves, in Georgia, the Carolinas, and in Tennessee—the single graves left in the woods or by the road-side, (hundreds, thousands, obliterated)—the corpses floated down the rivers, and caught and lodged, (dozens, scores, floated down the upper Potomac, after the cavalry engagements, the pursuit of Lee, following Gettysburgh)—some lie at the bottom of the sea—the general million, and the special cemeteries in almost all the States—the infinite dead—(the land entire saturated, perfumed with their impalpable ashes’ exhalation in Nature’s chemistry distill’d, and shall be so forever, in every future grain of wheat and ear of corn, and every flower that grows, and every breath we draw)—not only Northern dead leavening Southern soil—thousands, aye tens of thousands, of Southerners, crumble to-day in Northern earth.
And everywhere among these countless graves—everywhere in the many soldier Cemeteries of the Nation, (there are now, I believe, over seventy of them)—as at the time in the vast trenches, the depositories of slain, Northern and Southern, after the great battles—not only where the scathing trail passed those years, but radiating since in all the peaceful quarters of the land—we see, and ages yet may see, on monuments and gravestones, singly or in masses, to thousands or tens of thousands, the significant word Unknown."
I have to wonder if perhaps Mr. Whitman’s small glimpse is a bit more realistic than that which I have offered. Perhaps moving away from romanticization and underscoring the raw brutality of war more fittingly honors those men and women who sacrificed tremendously that we might enjoy all we have today.
Respectfully,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com.
All original material Copyright © 2006. All Rights Reserved
******************
References for this article: Prose Works
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Triumph of the 74th Pennsylvania
The restored 74th Pennsylvania Monument
On Friday November 14, 2003, a driver winding down Howard Avenue lost control of their SUV and slammed into the beautiful 74th Pennsylvania Monument. The crushing force shattered the monument soldiers had dedicated to friends and comrades who fell during the Battle of Gettysburg. Now as broken as the bodies of those it so proudly honored, many feared for the future of this uniquely somber monument.
The 115 year old monument, erected by the surviving members of the 74th PA, had faithfully watched over these fields north of Gettysburg since 1888. As the years progressed, the fallen color bearer held vigil while the wars wounds healed. North and South reconciled, twelve more states entered the Union, cars replaced horses, power lines spread along ever expanding roadways, radio then television brought the world closer, and technology exploded. Through countless unforgiving winters and sweltering summers, the monument endured. Now, the fragments of this memorial to deeds past, never before asking for sanctuary, needed the help of others simply to survive and continue its mission.
74th Pennsylvania Monument after the accident
The National Park Service removed most of the pieces from Gettysburg's sacred grounds and began the work of restoration. Visitors drove by the roped-off semi-vacant space, gazing in sadness at the fractured base of the once proud memorial. Time passed. Worried enthusiasts contacted Park Service staff for updates. Pensive anxiety grew as time lapsed. Weeks, then months, passed by. For the first time since Grover Cleveland's presidency, the seasons changed on these fields without the watchful eye of the 74th Pennsylvania.
Then in November of 2004, the majestic monument reappeared, once again resuming its post on the fields so faithfully guarded. The reparations proved a resounding glorious success. The restored monument once again cast its shadow on the fields where so many comrades had given their lives. The spirits of these men smiled as the monument, their monument, would endure so that we all could remember and ponder what they did here.
Sincerely,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com
All original material Copyright © 2006. All Rights Reserved
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Short Story: Home Sweet Home
At years end in December of 1862, his grand visions of glorious war had long since withered away, supplanted by the now too familiar scenes of mangled friends and foe lying upon recently contested ground. Passing over the grim visage of a newly christened battlefield, he found that in death, the differences between the casualties of either side somehow seemed less obvious and disturbingly less relevant.
A few short days ago, blue and gray clad soldiers marched away from Perryville Kentucky where in October, the merciless dark angel claimed more than 1,300 men. In happier times, these dead would have embraced each other as countrymen, but instead lost their lives for causes that seemed to him a little more distant than when the passions of war first sparked the now unremitting flames. Of those that survived, more than 5,000 emerged from the battle no longer whole, leaving behind arms, legs, and the deadened portions of their once innocent naive souls. He sometimes judged those at eternal rest as the more fortunate, except for their cold and lonely graves, shallow and quickly dug if they had a grave at all.
At days end as the men of both armies settled in for an uneasy night, the cold winter air lent each man a biting chill matching the lingering trepidation ever-present within. Fellow pickets on either side of him leaned against rocks or trees, tightly wrapped in whatever they had not foolishly discarded during the hot summer marches. The bolder or more desperate among them pulled closer the coats and blankets recently "acquired" from those no longer in need, vainly attempting to elude the cold, heavy rains and clinging mud which sought to leech the warmth from their tired, haggard bodies.
With his adversaries only some 700 yards distant, tonight, he would likely not find the peace of the forbidden yet cherished few moments of much needed sleep. Having learned some time ago the skill of dozing lightly while standing upright at his post, sleep would have offered a welcome respite from the cold misery of the last few weeks. While peering into the endless, surrounding darkness, he wondered what the night would yet hold for him.
As if to sooth the persistent anguish threatening to consume him, an army band mercifully broke the silence. When the initial welcome strains ended, adversaries from across the darkening divide responded in kind with a song of their own.
With each side now taking turn in this instrumental volley, music familiar to both armies danced among the trees stirring the chill winter air. These songs, he mused, once held dear by all, now either inspired thoughts of patriotism or treason depending upon your present chosen or dictated loyalties. Shifting his weight against the tree which held him upright, he wondered if in a strange twist, God had given the fleeting warmth that each note offered as a gift to the men who had in His name shattered so many of those created in His image.
The lyrics as familiar as the faces of his family, he watched his vaporous breath swirl in the frigid air as he joined in the diversion of song. His hoarse voice added to the orchestral tonic caressing the ground so contentiously held by the members of this growing unified chorus. For a moment, some of the pain, if not forgotten, diminished in severity with fraternal memories providing a bittersweet solace.
After several near joyous tunes, the continuing musical challenge abruptly changed tone as one side, he could no longer distinguish which, began the first few strains of Home Sweet Home. Other mournful voices now joined his in the welcome yet sad refrain.
Hours later, when the sun next rose, savage battle began anew, with this soldier and thousands more fated to never again see home except in the dimming light of their dying minds eye.
Very Respectfully,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com.
Please feel free to comment on this article by clicking on the word "Comments" below.
All original material Copyright © 2005. All Rights Reserved
A few short days ago, blue and gray clad soldiers marched away from Perryville Kentucky where in October, the merciless dark angel claimed more than 1,300 men. In happier times, these dead would have embraced each other as countrymen, but instead lost their lives for causes that seemed to him a little more distant than when the passions of war first sparked the now unremitting flames. Of those that survived, more than 5,000 emerged from the battle no longer whole, leaving behind arms, legs, and the deadened portions of their once innocent naive souls. He sometimes judged those at eternal rest as the more fortunate, except for their cold and lonely graves, shallow and quickly dug if they had a grave at all.
At days end as the men of both armies settled in for an uneasy night, the cold winter air lent each man a biting chill matching the lingering trepidation ever-present within. Fellow pickets on either side of him leaned against rocks or trees, tightly wrapped in whatever they had not foolishly discarded during the hot summer marches. The bolder or more desperate among them pulled closer the coats and blankets recently "acquired" from those no longer in need, vainly attempting to elude the cold, heavy rains and clinging mud which sought to leech the warmth from their tired, haggard bodies.
With his adversaries only some 700 yards distant, tonight, he would likely not find the peace of the forbidden yet cherished few moments of much needed sleep. Having learned some time ago the skill of dozing lightly while standing upright at his post, sleep would have offered a welcome respite from the cold misery of the last few weeks. While peering into the endless, surrounding darkness, he wondered what the night would yet hold for him.
As if to sooth the persistent anguish threatening to consume him, an army band mercifully broke the silence. When the initial welcome strains ended, adversaries from across the darkening divide responded in kind with a song of their own.
With each side now taking turn in this instrumental volley, music familiar to both armies danced among the trees stirring the chill winter air. These songs, he mused, once held dear by all, now either inspired thoughts of patriotism or treason depending upon your present chosen or dictated loyalties. Shifting his weight against the tree which held him upright, he wondered if in a strange twist, God had given the fleeting warmth that each note offered as a gift to the men who had in His name shattered so many of those created in His image.
The lyrics as familiar as the faces of his family, he watched his vaporous breath swirl in the frigid air as he joined in the diversion of song. His hoarse voice added to the orchestral tonic caressing the ground so contentiously held by the members of this growing unified chorus. For a moment, some of the pain, if not forgotten, diminished in severity with fraternal memories providing a bittersweet solace.
After several near joyous tunes, the continuing musical challenge abruptly changed tone as one side, he could no longer distinguish which, began the first few strains of Home Sweet Home. Other mournful voices now joined his in the welcome yet sad refrain.
- I gaze on the moon, as I tread the drear wild
And feel that my mother, Now thinks of her child;
As she looks on that moon, From our own cottage door,
Thro' the woodbine whose fragrance, Shall cheer me no more.
- An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain
Oh! give me my lowly thatch’d cottage again;
The birds singing gaily, that came at my call;
Give me them, with the peace of mind, dearer than all.
Home, home, sweet sweet home,
There's no place like home,
There's no place like home.
Hours later, when the sun next rose, savage battle began anew, with this soldier and thousands more fated to never again see home except in the dimming light of their dying minds eye.
Very Respectfully,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com.
Please feel free to comment on this article by clicking on the word "Comments" below.
All original material Copyright © 2005. All Rights Reserved
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Merry Christmas
I wish you a very Merry, Joyous, and Peaceful Christmas.
May God grant us the wisdom to
pursue and protect a permanent peace for all,
in part by taking lesson from our shared past.
Sincerely,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com
All original material Copyright © 2005. All Rights Reserved
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Yesterday's Children
The cold, bitter wind cut between the branches of bare trees and the stones scattered among them over the roughly mowed, undulating ground. Darkening oak and maple leaves long since fallen from their commanding heights now sheltered against the base of many a marble marker, seeking haven from the blowing frigid air. Pulling down my hat, I clutched the over-copied plot map that had led me to the general’s headstone. Having taken the photographs I wanted, I strode quickly back down the path to the anticipated comfort of my car. Scanning the fields surrounding me and then glancing down at the paper, I noted with a touch of sadness the disparity between the number buried here and the few deemed relevant enough for mention on the map. The important ones would receive the occasional appreciative visitor with only an intermittent indifferent glance going to the more numerous forgotten dead.
The old Laurel Hill Cemetery along Philadelphia’s Schuylkill River serves as an eternal home to revolutionaries, political leaders, soldiers, professionals, laborers, and past citizens from the then young United States. Time had yet spared many of the 19th century gravestones which fared better than their older comrades with progressively illegible epitaphs. Thankfully, the markers on the Meade family plot remained clear. Union Major General George Gordon Meade’s simple stone stated for all who cared to visit, "He did his work bravely and is at rest". My camera would now hold this image safe from the wearing effects of the ages.
Hurriedly folding the map, I glanced down while stuffing the paper in my pocket. The cold air, the crude map, and all else faded from attention as I noted a small ground-level marker along the edge of the macadam path leading back to the cemetery entrance. The simple text read only:
Sarah Ann Hobson
1845 – 1850
Reuben W. Hobson
1850 – 1850
The meaning hit hard. In this one year, grieving parents lost their five year old daughter and infant son. Scanning the cold ground, I found the parents’ stone close by, plain in appearance like their children’s. The tragedy grew as their words added an impact all their own.
Thomas Hobson, MD
Jan. 8, 1814
Nov. 12, 1853
The father who lost two children so quickly died 3 years later at age 39. His wife Elizabeth, also noted on the stone, would carry on with their one remaining child, Jane, born in 1851.
Pausing to consider their loss, recent conversations crept into consciousness. "Life is so stressful today" I hear frequently as someone inevitably claims that what they now endure surpasses all experienced by those from any other era in human history. Parents rightfully work to protect their children from a "modern" society overrun with violence and death, fearing that exposure to tragedy may irreparably traumatize their children and damage their future. Yet somehow, the family resting at my feet suffered severe tragedy and then moved on, with Elizabeth living about 40 years after the deaths of her children and husband. According to her own stone, their daughter Jane would outlive her mother by another 30 years.
The children of the 19th century had their own "stressors" with which to cope. Up to 25% of all children would die before their first birthday with the rate falling to a still tragic 1 in 10 for those who received the best care. In some regions of the young country, up to the same percentage of mothers would die during or due to complications from birth. Nineteenth century medicine would not uncover the role microbes play in disease until the 1870s with antiseptic practices only then becoming mainstream. Penicillin would first become available another 70 some years later. As a whole, life expectancy mid-19th century hovered around 43 years. The children of that day would then face the potential death of a parent or sibling throughout all of their young lives while continuously attempting to elude the specter of life stealing infectious disease.
During the Civil War years, children would lose 185,000 fathers, brothers, uncles, relatives and friends as that number would die in battle or because of wounds sustained. An additional 400,000 would perish from the infectious diseases which sliced through armies both North and South. Another 412,000 would suffer wounds but survive the war albeit no longer whole. Combined, casualties would surpass 3% of the United States' population leaving an even greater number of children to cope with the losses and scars of war. Countless untold others would struggle with deprivation and hunger with the freed slaves and those remaining in the devastated, smoldering South experiencing the greatest hardship.
Yet the young of that age endured and grew into adulthood, most having children of their own. The country would not only survive but thrive as it continued to grow both geographically, economically, and technologically. As time passed, the country’s young would endure the impact of two world wars, the Korean War, Vietnam, decades of racial tension, deadly outbreaks of disease, natural disasters, and a host of other more personal tragedies and catastrophes. And still, they endured.
After a respectful pause, I nodded to the stones in front of me and slowly stepped backwards, thankful for the greater confidence I felt concerning our children’s ability to cope. Turning, I quickened my step and strode towards the predictable warmth of my car.
Sincerely,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com.
All original material Copyright © 2005. All Rights Reserved
******************
References for this article:
The old Laurel Hill Cemetery along Philadelphia’s Schuylkill River serves as an eternal home to revolutionaries, political leaders, soldiers, professionals, laborers, and past citizens from the then young United States. Time had yet spared many of the 19th century gravestones which fared better than their older comrades with progressively illegible epitaphs. Thankfully, the markers on the Meade family plot remained clear. Union Major General George Gordon Meade’s simple stone stated for all who cared to visit, "He did his work bravely and is at rest". My camera would now hold this image safe from the wearing effects of the ages.Hurriedly folding the map, I glanced down while stuffing the paper in my pocket. The cold air, the crude map, and all else faded from attention as I noted a small ground-level marker along the edge of the macadam path leading back to the cemetery entrance. The simple text read only:
Sarah Ann Hobson
1845 – 1850
Reuben W. Hobson
1850 – 1850
The meaning hit hard. In this one year, grieving parents lost their five year old daughter and infant son. Scanning the cold ground, I found the parents’ stone close by, plain in appearance like their children’s. The tragedy grew as their words added an impact all their own.
Thomas Hobson, MD
Jan. 8, 1814
Nov. 12, 1853
The father who lost two children so quickly died 3 years later at age 39. His wife Elizabeth, also noted on the stone, would carry on with their one remaining child, Jane, born in 1851.
Pausing to consider their loss, recent conversations crept into consciousness. "Life is so stressful today" I hear frequently as someone inevitably claims that what they now endure surpasses all experienced by those from any other era in human history. Parents rightfully work to protect their children from a "modern" society overrun with violence and death, fearing that exposure to tragedy may irreparably traumatize their children and damage their future. Yet somehow, the family resting at my feet suffered severe tragedy and then moved on, with Elizabeth living about 40 years after the deaths of her children and husband. According to her own stone, their daughter Jane would outlive her mother by another 30 years.
The children of the 19th century had their own "stressors" with which to cope. Up to 25% of all children would die before their first birthday with the rate falling to a still tragic 1 in 10 for those who received the best care. In some regions of the young country, up to the same percentage of mothers would die during or due to complications from birth. Nineteenth century medicine would not uncover the role microbes play in disease until the 1870s with antiseptic practices only then becoming mainstream. Penicillin would first become available another 70 some years later. As a whole, life expectancy mid-19th century hovered around 43 years. The children of that day would then face the potential death of a parent or sibling throughout all of their young lives while continuously attempting to elude the specter of life stealing infectious disease.During the Civil War years, children would lose 185,000 fathers, brothers, uncles, relatives and friends as that number would die in battle or because of wounds sustained. An additional 400,000 would perish from the infectious diseases which sliced through armies both North and South. Another 412,000 would suffer wounds but survive the war albeit no longer whole. Combined, casualties would surpass 3% of the United States' population leaving an even greater number of children to cope with the losses and scars of war. Countless untold others would struggle with deprivation and hunger with the freed slaves and those remaining in the devastated, smoldering South experiencing the greatest hardship.
Yet the young of that age endured and grew into adulthood, most having children of their own. The country would not only survive but thrive as it continued to grow both geographically, economically, and technologically. As time passed, the country’s young would endure the impact of two world wars, the Korean War, Vietnam, decades of racial tension, deadly outbreaks of disease, natural disasters, and a host of other more personal tragedies and catastrophes. And still, they endured.
After a respectful pause, I nodded to the stones in front of me and slowly stepped backwards, thankful for the greater confidence I felt concerning our children’s ability to cope. Turning, I quickened my step and strode towards the predictable warmth of my car.
Sincerely,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com.
All original material Copyright © 2005. All Rights Reserved
******************
References for this article:
Monday, November 28, 2005
"But We Do Know You"
While reading, "A Girl's Life in Virginia Before the War" first published in 1895, I came across this tidbit about a visitor to the home of the author, Letitia M. Burwell.
"Trust in God kept him calm in victory as in defeat. When I remember General Lee during the war, in his family circle at Richmond, then at the height of his renown, his manner, voice, and conversation were the same as when, a year after the surrender, he came to pay my mother a visit from his Lexington home.
His circumstances and surroundings were now changed: no longer the stars and epaulets adorned his manly form; but, dressed in a simple suit of pure white linen, he looked a king, and adversity had wrought no change in his character, manner, or conversation.
To reach our house he made a journey, on his old war horse "Traveler," forty miles across the mountains, describing which, on the night of his arrival, he said:
"To-day an incident occurred which gratified me more than anything that has happened for a long time. As I was riding over the most desolate mountain region, where not even a cabin could be seen, I was surprised to find, on a sudden turn in the road, two little girls playing on a large rock. They were very poorly clad, and after looking a moment at me began to run away. 'Children,' said I, 'don't run away. If you could know who I am, you would know that I am the last man in the world for anybody to run from now.'
" 'But we do know you,' they replied.
" 'You never saw me before,' I said, 'for I never passed along here.'
" 'But we do know you' they said. 'And we've got your picture up yonder in the house, and you are General Lee! And we aint dressed clean enough to see you.'
"With this they scampered off to a poor low hut on the mountain side."
Sincerely,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com.
All original material Copyright © 2005. All Rights Reserved
******************
References for this article:
"Trust in God kept him calm in victory as in defeat. When I remember General Lee during the war, in his family circle at Richmond, then at the height of his renown, his manner, voice, and conversation were the same as when, a year after the surrender, he came to pay my mother a visit from his Lexington home.
His circumstances and surroundings were now changed: no longer the stars and epaulets adorned his manly form; but, dressed in a simple suit of pure white linen, he looked a king, and adversity had wrought no change in his character, manner, or conversation.
To reach our house he made a journey, on his old war horse "Traveler," forty miles across the mountains, describing which, on the night of his arrival, he said:
"To-day an incident occurred which gratified me more than anything that has happened for a long time. As I was riding over the most desolate mountain region, where not even a cabin could be seen, I was surprised to find, on a sudden turn in the road, two little girls playing on a large rock. They were very poorly clad, and after looking a moment at me began to run away. 'Children,' said I, 'don't run away. If you could know who I am, you would know that I am the last man in the world for anybody to run from now.'
" 'But we do know you,' they replied.
" 'You never saw me before,' I said, 'for I never passed along here.'
" 'But we do know you' they said. 'And we've got your picture up yonder in the house, and you are General Lee! And we aint dressed clean enough to see you.'
"With this they scampered off to a poor low hut on the mountain side."
Sincerely,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com.
All original material Copyright © 2005. All Rights Reserved
******************
References for this article:
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