A VISION OF THE PAST

Found an interesting letter from far back in the family archives written by my Great-Great Grandfather, whom I believe was a Major in the CSA way back when. The prose is somewhat different in expression and a good read with a slight twist in structure. Please pardon any errors or colloquialism, as it was taken word by word.

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A VISION OF THE PAST

By Jas. P. Whitman

In relating this vision so far as memory recalls the incidents of years past, in the hope that it may cheer and comfort the hearts of those faithful old Confederate Veterans who passed through the terrible War between the States, and have since fought successfully the wolf from the door. Many of them have passed the seventieth mile-stone of life, and are sitting calmly by the riverside, awaiting the summons: “Well done thy good and faithful servant”, come!, come up higher, where peace, joy and happiness reigneth forever; and where war, pestilence and famine are unknown. And comrade, if you have placed the same confidence and faith in the Great Judge of all the earth, that you once placed in that immaculate leader, General R. E. Lee, you need not fear to enter into the mysteries of the Great Beyond.

It has been many years since the shrill call of the cavalier’s bugle and the clash of arms was heard on the hills and plains of Virginia, yet the echo is ringing still. Age may add age to it’s stories, but nothing can crowd the events of the Civil War from the memory and heart of the old Confederate Soldier. The historian and the sage have written the story; but when a few old veterans meet around the festal board, or their own humble hearthstones, there is a charm not found in the pages of history.

Just before the call to the bugle of arms was heard on the plains of Virginia, in company with a dozen couples of my companions and schoolmates, mounted on those splendid roadsters of the times; each with his best girl or sweetheart, we gave the rein and bit to our impatient mounts; and riding with the wind, not to the chase of the fox or the music of the hounds, but to loves fond dreams; overflowing with joy, happiness and peace to all the world. On we rode, through the charming scenes of the country, through vale and forest; how charming and graceful they sat their steeds; with nothing to mar the pleasure and happiness that seemed in store for them. On the road to the home of some generous hostess, whose table groaning under the delicious viands and meats, awaiting our arrival. Dismounting and caring for our horses, we rejoined our companions around the festal board. What a delightful entertainment, how skillfully our sweethearts parried the thrust of loves’ eyes, as they sat opposite to us at table but could not conceal the blush of love and the purity that rested on those sweet, dimpled, virtuous cheeks, that the lips of man had never profaned.

After refreshments, the carpets and surplus furniture was hastily removed from the best room, and a place was prepared for the musicians. The dance opened with the Old Virginia Reel, then followed by those graceful figures, the cotillion and quadrille. With flushed cheek, piercing bright eyes, peace, joy, reigneth in their young hearts, how skillfully and gracefully they responded to the step and time of the music, until the “wee small” hours, our hostess announced the time to retire. With reluctance we bid them goodnight, wishing them pleasant dreams. But why continue; I cannot bring back the flight of years, nor would I dispel those pleasant visions, if it were in my power. 

Setting by the grate fire, that burned down to a small fading glow, and over the gray mountain top the evening star was leading up to the night, as seen through my window, my wife sitting opposite me on the hearthstone knitting; those tapering fingers casting stitch after stitch over those bright knitting needles, preparing a Christmas present for someone in need. The flight of years had silvered the once beautiful auburn locks, the dimple in the cheeks had faded, but the brilliant blue eyes retained the spirit of youth, as if it were but yesterday that we participated in that enjoyable ride.

I had been reading one of J. Esten Cooke’s best novels, “Mohun”; the tick of the old wooden clock on the mantle, that had ticked off the days, months and years of the last century, was all that disturbed the stillness of the night. The lamp on the mantle had burned low, casting its weird and flickering shadows over the room. The book had fallen to the floor; semiconscious, my mind had run back over the vista of years, (half a century) to my soldiers days, when I was trying to serve my country, and a just and righteous cause, dear and sacred to me and sacred to the hearts of my countrymen. There seemed a veil of mist over memory, as I tried to recall the past; the curtain began to lift and reveal. I thought I was standing on the top of the Blue Ridge Mountain, near Snickers Gap, overlooking the plains of the South and the valley to the North. The moon was just setting in the western horizon, millions of silvery stars studded the Heavens. Not a breeze ruffled the leaves of the dwarf chestnut and the pines that stood below me; calmness and silence would have been oppressive, had it not been for the enchanting scene below. On the plains of the South, where an army of Confederate Soldiers encamped, their tents spread over the entire plain on either side of the road. At this hour they were sleeping, perhaps dreaming of loved ones at home, of preparations being made for Christmas, and their meeting of their sweethearts when the furlough came.

Away to the East was the city of Washington, the Capital of a once united people, but the seat of fanaticism and sectionalism. Under such influence the vast and increasing armies of the North, was to overrun the South. But now looking to the East the sun was just casting its golden rays over sea and land, driving back as it were the silvery stars in the blue vaulted Heavens.

The bugle sounded; “Awake”, and prepare for breakfast. Where silence reigned, the camp sprang into vigorous life, some preparing the “Johnny Cakes”, and roasting on forked sticks poor army beef and salt pork. Many others going to the cool and sparkling brook that wended its way through the camp, for their morning bath, filling their canteens with the delicious spring water that arose from the base of the mountain and flowed eastward into the Potomac, this was to serve in the place of tea or coffee, for the aroma of that delightful beverage was absent. Breakfast was over, tents were struck, blankets were folded, knapsacks slung and arms shouldered prepared to move. Again the bugle called, “Form Ranks; Prepare For Inspection”. Corps after corps with subdivisions, quickly responded, leaving space between each until the plain was covered with soldiers and their glittering arms. Then General Lee and staff was seen to emerge from a small grove, and ride forward with hat in hand, through the lines of formation, amidst ten thousand cheers of welcome, that might have been heard on the plains of Gettysburg. After which there fell a deep silence, those old veterans standing at attention. Again the bugle was sounded, echoing and reechoing over the plain and mountain; “Forward March!” Each corps with its subdivisions, with banners flying and bands playing, formed into columns of fours, filed into the road, with General Lee and staff in the van, wending their way to the eastern slope of the mountain; away to the South the artillery, wagons and ambulances, could be seen taking their places in the march.

How long I stood enraptured at the scene I do not know, but presently, my faithful black threw up her head and neighed. I mounted and rode back to the gap, and found myself in the presence of that awe inspiring and great soldier, General Lee. I saluted and was turning to rejoin my regiment near Berryville, when I halted, and asked to what command I belonged. I saluted and answered. Then General Lee gave me a dispatch to General A. Jenkins, to move forward to Hagerstown, Maryland. Down the steep inclines I rode, across the Shenandoah, and on through one of the most picturesque spots of Virginia. The dew on the grass and flowers hung suspended like pearls in the morning sun; the larks from the meadows circled away overhead, with songs of greetings to the morning saphors; a bob white on the fence was calling loudly for his mate and little ones in a harvest field, ere the sickle of the husbandman should reap the golden grain, and the tread of the reaper would destroy the little nest under the turf, where his mate had dwelt and reared a beautiful and contented brood.

I had given my faithful mare the rein and bit, and in that even canter of the trained mount, I rode on. What a contrast to the ride I had with my sweetheart in years past, just before donning the gray uniform. Had she not plighted her hand and life to me, and in return, had I not solemnly vowed to be true to her plighted faith. And with the assurance of her faithfulness to her vowels, and that I had an interest in her daily prayers; on I rode, until a sentinel at headquarters halted me. I dismounted, and saluting, delivered the dispatch to the General. The command moved forward. When near Martinsburg, West Virginia, our advance was fired on by the Yanks. The General dismounting the command (except the fourteenth regiment) moved on the enemy stationed behind a stone fence. We were ordered to charge, amidst the rattle of musketry, roar of artillery, bursting shells and charging cavalry. I gave the Rebel Yell and sprang forward, knocking over a rocking chair, and overturning a four gallon can of cream, my wife had placed near the fire to sour, she having retired some hours before and was sleeping sweetly and peacefully, until awakened by that horrible and blood curdling “Rebel Yell”. She sprang from the bed, exclaiming with affright:

“Jim! What in the world is the matter, are you crazy?” 

"No wife! I must have been dreaming of being in battle, calm yourself.”

“Goodness! What is this you have done; turned over the can of cream?”

“My dear wife, I beg your pardon, it is better that, than the shedding of blood.”

“Well;” “You”  Further than this (I say nix) and decline to record what followed. For when the good, sweet and even tempered Lady of the house becomes “riled”, she is an expert hand with the broomstick.

Horsepen, Virginia. December 24, 1913