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Dearest Father,
I write to you with terrible news. The Confederate army has been dealt a crushing blow at the town of Gettysburg. We made a perilous flight from the Federal butchers, trying to get our few surviving units across the river and away to regroup for a renewed defense. But, alas, we encountered Federal flanking forces through which we could not penetrate. I write these words from the basement of an abandoned house, praying that I may be overlooked.
I know not where the family is now that once made their home here. If the Republicans continue their madness I fear our entire South will come to look as this place. Men slaughtered, their widows brutalized. Children scattered and left to beg. Negros turned out of the homes we made for them. It brings me near weeping to think of what the Republicans are destroying. We have given our darkies the security of cradle-to-grave employment, care in their old age, guaranteed housing, the training necessary to practice their trade, all free. Even health care, on days when our dear old Dr. Clemmons is not too taken with drink. And the Republicans would throw all this away. For what? Freedom. I ask you, Father, can you eat freedom? Can you wear it? Can you shelter under it in the rain? Yet it is for "Freedom" and "Personal Liberty" that the Republicans would throw away all the things we Southern Democrats have built for these people.
But I prate on about matters with which I am sure you are all too conversant. Doubtless you wish to hear the nature of the disaster I have just endured, and as the light of day is fading I shall hasten to tell you.
| As the first elements of our fleeing force came within sight of the river ford, the only trace of Federal scalawags was the muzzle of a cannon poking over a brick wall. But we feared there would be more in wait. Forest lined the road on left and right, just where the lines fall on the poor sketch map I've drawn you. Forest can hide a legion of blackguards. | |
| That fieldpiece fired heavily into our ranks and I saw the bodies of fine Southern gentlemen torn apart. We went as fast as we dared push our exhausted steeds, but in the distance we heard the thunder of hoofbeats and knew more troops were on their way. | |
| Ride as we could, we weren't fast enough. Fresh flanking troops came pouring along the river edge to support the cannon crew. | |
| And another brigade took up our own trenchworks, dug when it was we who fancied we would stop the Yanks from a river crossing. | |
| What else could we do? With a rebel yell, we charged ahead ... | |
| ... into the guns of the enemy. | |
| In the forestline a Federal cavalry brigade had been hidden like cowards! As we passed they mounted their horses to come on us roguelike from the flank. | |
| You taught me from a young age, Father, that skulduggery never pays. And it did not pay for those Federal troops. Before they could recover from their subterfuge, we had passed them by and ridden down the crew of that damnable cannon. | |
| It was a move of suicide and desperation, and indeed my unit was cut down around me once we had penetrated into the thick of Federal lines. Were it not that my horse was shot and pinned me half-stunned to the ground before I myself could receive a bullet, I very well may not have borne through to write to you. Nevertheless, our actions bought valuable time for our compatriots to approach and spread out for a coordinated engagement of Lincoln's murdering ruffians. | |
| On the right flank we bore through the forest to come at those yellow dogs with fixed bayonets. | |
| While on the left we forced their flanking troops off the road, leaving a clear path for our boys to come on home. | |
| But the Feds had covered the bridge with overlapping, dug in troops. There were so many of them, and so soon! | |
| In a final mad push we threw everything we had into the breach. But it was not enough. Our lines began to shudder and break until we had lines no longer, at least not that the eye could discern. Our dead lay heaped in rows, and the fields resounded with the moaning of the wounded and dying. Those few of us lucky enough to escape with our lives and our bodies whole run now like fugitives, hunted criminals in our own land. | |
This is a day the South will rue. Many mothers will wait in vain for the boot-tread of a returning son. Many young widows will pine for the husband carried off in the hands of God. Many house-negroes will shed a tear for the young master so long departed. And for what? War, Father, I tell you, war solves nothing.
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