He felt as if his voice was about to break. He took a deep breath and went on.
'Jackson, who fell at Chancellorsville, so many who rest in unmarked graves, so many who will never return home. Some might now say that we must shed more blood, otherwise their sacrifice would be in vain.'
Lee shook his head.
'Thus it is always said across history, and yet never have we heard the dead themselves speak, telling us what they would want. Would they want more blood poured upon their graves as atonement? I think not. I believe, instead, it would be their voices that would be the loudest, urging us not to waste the blood of one more young man for a cause that is now lost. Let the dead who fought for this cause rest in honored peace. Let the living who survived…'
And now his voice did come close to breaking.
'Let the living go home to the waiting embraces of their loved ones. Let them go home with heads high, knowing they are men of honor, whose former foes wish now to extend the hand of friendship and peace.
'My friends, across two years we have prayed to God for guidance and victory. Our opponents have done the same. There is a terrible irony in that, for both sides to pray to the same Prince of Peace for the destruction of the other. The prayers of neither side have been answered fully. Yet, is it not evident that the will of God is revealed? For whatever reason, he has judged against us. We have prayed to him with humility, as men of honor, and that honor is intact.
'I believe firmly, that to continue the struggle now is to turn against God's will, and in so doing, we shall face a terrible judgment.'
He lowered his head in the silent room.
'Gentlemen, may the blessing of the Almighty be upon you and guide you this day. I shall now return to private life. Good day.'
He stepped down from the podium and with head high walked out of the room. As he started to leave, Pete Longstreet came forward, followed by other officers, and without comment or fanfare, they drew their swords, laid them at the foot of the lectern, and followed their general out of the room.
As he stepped out onto the steps of the capitol his men, his gallant men, were drawn up in ranks, coming to attention, saluting.
'We're with you, General!' someone shouted, and a wild cheer, the rebel yell went up, sending a chill down his spine.
How many times, dear God, how many times did I hear that yell, their going forward, colors at the fore, that wild cheer that signaled victory.
He waited, the cheer dying down, something in his demeanor commanding silence.
Behind him the doors to the capitol were open and he could hear the speaker pounding his gavel. 'The chair recognizes the Honorable Judah Benjamin.'
Before him was a sea of upturned faces.
'My comrades,' he began, then paused, 'my friends…' No one spoke. All were silent.
'After two years of arduous service, marked by unsurpassed courage and fortitude, the armies of the Confederacy must now yield to overwhelming numbers and material. We must humbly, and yet honorably, yield as well to the will of God. The war is over. Disband and go home. May you be as good citizens of the United States of America as you have been soldiers of the Confederacy. That is my last order to you. Farewell.'
Mounting Traveler, he rode past their silent ranks. One by one men reached out to touch him as he passed, some saluted, some stood silent, hats clenched in hands. As he looked into their eyes he was filled not with sadness, but with hope. He could see in the eyes of so many, not anguish, but a dreamlike realization… they were alive… they had outlived the nightmare… they were going home, home to families, home to farms not ravaged by war, home to waiting children, parents, and wives. They were going home.
The war was over.
Frederick, Maryland November 19, 1863
After the long two-hour speech by Edward Everett, formally dedicating the cemetery at Frederick, a band.was now playing a patriotic air.
For Ulysses S. Grant all music was an annoyance. He had a tin ear, and music, especially loud military marches, could often trigger a headache.
Sitting on the raised dais, he looked out across the field, and there was the nightmare memory of this same field, little more than two months back, the same field across which Lee had launched his final charge on Frederick.
The town behind him was quickly rebuilding, but the land around Frederick still bore mute evidence of the shock of war. Destroyed fields, gutted farmhouses and barns, and, directly before him, earth still freshly mounded over, row upon row upon row, nearly six thousand graves so far.
The crowd that had gathered for the ceremony stood in a vast semicircle around the new cemetery, but a scattering of men and women stood within, an informal understanding that those who had a comrade or loved one resting on this sacred ground could stand by the remains of their fallen.
Near the front he saw Emily McPherson, dressed in black. He caught her eye for a moment and was filled yet again with the memory of his old comrade. Near her was a soldier in Confederate uniform, a young colonel, standing next to the grave of Custer.
A fair number of former Confederates were actually present, though he did not know their names. Sergeant Hazner and one-armed Sergeant Robinson were present, standing by the mass graves for the unidentified Confederate dead, who, at the insistence of President Lincoln, were to be interned in the same cemetery, though in a different section, a compromise Lincoln made when some hard-liners protested that decision.
Another decision that Lincoln had made-and stoutly shut down any protest over-was that black soldiers' graves were to be mingled with white. Grant recognized Major Bartlett, a Medal of Honor around his neck, and by his side an elderly black gentleman whom he recognized as well, Mr. James Bartlett, now special adviser to the president for the Freedmen's Bureau. They stood together by a grave, hands resting on the temporary wooden cross. He caught their gaze for a second, and Major Bartlett came to attention and saluted. Grant nodded in return, knowing that they were standing by the grave of their son and grandson.
The music continued, and Grant waited patiently for it to finish.
'Well, General, it is over, and you did it,' Elihu Washburne said, leaning over to whisper to him. 'Looking back, did you always think it was going to end this way?'
Grant shook his head, glad for the momentary diversion of conversation.
'No, sir, I did not think victory was inevitable.'
Elihu looked at him with surprise.
'From the moment you were assigned command and first met President Lincoln, you said we would win.'
Grant smiled.
'All generals must say that if they are indeed to win. What kind of confidence could I give to my men, to you or the president if I said, 'Maybe'? Men must go into battle with confidence, and that was my job, sir, to instill that confidence, and frankly to believe in it as well. To do otherwise would mean defeat.
'But now that it is over, I can confess, there were times that I did doubt we could do it.'
'How so?'
'The South was trying to leave, and we were trying to force them to stay. Conquering a region is vastly harder than defending it. We had no real army when this war began. Many of our best officers left to defend their home states.
'Only one man stood between ending the Union and preserving the Union, and that man is sitting over there.'
Grant pointed toward Lincoln, who was sitting next to the speaker's podium.
'It ultimately rested with him. Without his will and his ability to survive defeat after defeat and discouragement after discouragement the South would now be a separate country and the Confederacy would be our rival on the North American continent. General Lee had the South at the edge of victory after Second Bull Run, after Fredericksburg, after Chancellorsville, and after the great victories of this summer. A weaker man than President Lincoln would have broken, and an armistice would have been signed. Once a truce was signed, there
