Reflections on a Return to Gettysburg

A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to make a return visit to Gettysburg, my first in two years. The primary reason for my visit was to see the new Gettysburg National Military Park (NPS) Museum and Visitor Center, which opened in September 2008. I was not only anxious to see this new state of the art facility, but also to examine how the NPS was telling the story of the Civil War, which had become a subject of controversy in the last decade. What I found was that, at Gettysburg, they got it right.

Since the NPS assumed management of Gettysburg and other Civil War sites from the War Department in the 1930s, the sole focus of their historical interpretation had been on the battles themselves. There was no discussion of how each battle fit within the broader canvas of the war and there was no information presented on how the war came to happen. Most of all, there was certainly no discussion of slavery as the cause of the conflict. To mention slavery at all was and still is seen in some quarters as, at best, inappropriate, and, at worst, politically correct revisionism.

But in 1998, this all began to change. NPS superintendents decided that, with the approach of the 150th anniversary of the war, it was high time they began including the causes of the war in the interpretation they presented to the visiting public. However, when this “radical” change became public, the NPS was inundated with thousands of letters from the Sons of Confederate Veterans, members of Civil War Roundtables, the general public, and Southern members of Congress claiming the government was slandering the South with its “PC” interpretation of the war. These letters also charged that the NPS was going to turn battlefields into "South-bashing, hate-generating propaganda centers."

While most modern historians agree that slavery was, indeed, the central cause of the war, some still object that such a discussion is inappropriate for a battlefield site. Dr. James Robertson, the noted Civil War historian from Virginia Tech University, said, “I don't think there is any doubt about it - without slavery, there would have been no Civil War." Nevertheless, he also stated that slavery did not belong in the story told at the battlefields. Using Antietam as an example, Robertson said, "Antietam Battlefield is no place for [this] kind of museum, exhibit, display, propaganda or whatever you call it.”

While I am a great admirer of Dr. Robertson’s work, I cannot agree with him on this subject. If he were to get out of the classroom and the symposium circuit, he would find that most of the American public does not really know how this national tragedy came to be, or what it cost us as a nation. At best, they were taught the “Lost Cause” version of the Civil War, which was the “politically correct” history in this country for over 100 years and which states categorically that slavery was not the cause of the conflict. At worst, their teachers simply skipped all mention of the war and its cause entirely. As a result, most Americans have no context from which to understand these battlefields and the horrific events that took place there.

In contrast to James Robertson, other historians, such as Dr. James McPherson, have applauded the NPS action and encouraged historians to engage in the resulting public debate. McPherson argues that battlefield parks can both tell the story of the war and the battles they interpret, stating, "It's not a zero-sum game. If you broaden your interpretation by adding non-military context to the issues that doesn't mean reducing or diminishing the quality of interpretation." In fact, McPherson believes we have a duty to tell the story: "We expect Germans and Japanese to confront their own history…yet somehow we don't always ask ourselves to do the same thing, that is, confront aspects of our past."

If the new Gettysburg museum is an example of this approach, the NPS is to be congratulated on their work. From the time you enter the museum and watch the opening film, “A New Birth of Freedom,” until you exit, you receive a balanced, accurate, and compelling story of the war’s causes, the course of the conflict before Gettysburg, the three days of fighting there, and the aftermath. The exhibits and displays are informative and, at times, deeply moving. An example of the latter is the transitional display between the hall on the final day of battle at Gettysburg and those that cover the battle’s aftermath. As I walked from one hall to the next, I found myself staring at a huge wall covered in photographs of soldiers, all of them casualties at Gettysburg. I found myself frozen, unable to move, as literally hundreds of faces looked back at me, each seemingly begging for me to see them, to remember them…each a son, a brother, a husband, a father. It was incredibly powerful and I simply could not turn away. When I finally did move on, I turned back so I could see how others reacted. Each person had a reaction similar to mine. They would stop, stare at the wall, and seemed rooted in place. One woman gasped and placed a hand over her mouth, while her husband could be seen to quietly say, “Dear God.”

The other aspect I must complement the NPS for is the heavy use of soldier’s letters and diaries to tell the story. From the narration at the cyclorama painting to the museum exhibits, the emphasis is on the experience of the average soldier, his fears and hopes—and this is properly so. The best way for people to understand the cost of this war is to hear in the words of people just like them, who lived these events and bore its cost so dearly.

When I left the museum, I drove to the Gettysburg National Cemetery, walked among the headstones, remembering the words Lincoln delivered there, and quietly thanked each man for what he gave to us as a nation. But the cost of that terrible sacrifice becomes especially apparent when you walk among those stones that simply have a number on them. These are the unknowns, boys and men whose names we will never know. I could not help but think that, for each of them, there was a mother or a wife, who simply stopped getting letters after the first three days of July, 1863. Eventually, these soldiers’ names would appear on an official list as “missing,” and no word of their fate or how they died would ever be received by their grieving families.

From there, I journeyed to Little Round Top. I got out of my car, walked to the crest of the hill, sat on large stone, and quietly took in the view. I am not sure I had any great epiphanies as I looked about me, but the entire experience was, as it always is, very sobering and very grounding. My problems and the stresses of work and life in the early 21st century seemed suddenly very small.

My heartfelt thanks go to all those who labored to bring the new interpretation at Gettysburg to life. They succeeded in their goal of making the history they present to the public more relevant, honest, and real. The end product is something every American should see and, more than that, truly experience. It serves as a reminder of all that was done and suffered here to make the nation whole and to give us the “new birth of freedom” of which Lincoln so eloquently spoke. And, in doing so, it also seeks to tell all of us that our work in that regard is still unfinished.

“Dear Sarah:” The Sullivan Ballou Letter

On September 23, 1990, Ken Burns’ mini-series documentary, The Civil War, made its debut on PBS. It would become immensely popular and was the subject of workplace “water cooler” conversations across the nation during its initial airing that fall. However, there was one moment that defined the series, and which fired the imagination and touched the hearts of viewers across the nation. That moment occurred at the conclusion of the first episode, when narrator David McCullough introduced Paul Roebling’s reading of a letter, written by an obscure volunteer major from Rhode Island to his wife. Within minutes, as the closing credits were still rolling, phone lines at virtually every PBS station lit up, as thousands of viewers called. They all wanted to know if the letter that they had just listened to was real, and, if so, who was this man who had written something so wonderful. Many described the letter as the most “romantic” they had ever heard. For me, however, this remarkable letter has become far more than merely “romantic.”

The letter was penned by Sullivan Ballou, a major in the 2nd Rhode Island Infantry Regiment, just one week before the first Battle of Bull Run. Ballou was a lawyer and member of the state legislature from Smithfield, Rhode Island. He had grown up in Smithfield and, having lost both his parents at an early age, struggled to both fend for himself as a child, and make something of himself as a young man. But, he certainly succeeded at both, successfully graduating from Brown University and then entering the Rhode Island Bar in 1853.

In 1855, Ballou married Sarah Hart Shumway, a young lady of 19, described as intelligent and “proper.” Their first child, Edgar Fowler Ballou, was born in August 1856 and, two years later, a second son, William Bowen Ballou, would follow. Sullivan and Sarah’s marriage was, by all accounts, a very happy one, and Sullivan’s career was extremely promising. By the time the Civil War broke out, he was 32, had a prosperous law practice, and was already a former speaker of the Rhode Island House of Representatives. But, Sullivan Ballou was also an ardent supporter of Abraham Lincoln and, when Lincoln called for volunteers to put down the Southern rebellion, he felt compelled to be among them.

However, while Ballou had no trepidation in serving, he did feel pain at being separated from Sarah and his two little boys. And, perhaps more so, he also worried about what would happen to them should be killed in battle. He knew that his sons would become orphans, as he had been, and this prospect caused him great concern. But, he knew that Sarah was a very capable and loving mother, and that she would see the boys through. However, he also worried about her and obviously agonized over the prospect of her becoming a widow at 25. And it was all these emotions that he poured out to her when he wrote his letter on that July night in 1861.

As anyone who knows of the letter is probably aware, Ballou would die of wounds received at Bull Run one week after he wrote to Sarah. He was buried in the yard of nearby Sudley Church and, after Confederate forces reoccupied the area, several ghoulish soldiers from Georgia exhumed, decapitated, and desecrated his corpse. His body was never recovered, but charred ash and bone believed to be his remains were found and reburied with full military honors in Swan Point Cemetery, Providence, Rhode Island, on March 31, 1862.

However, while those who know about the letter are aware of Ballou’s death at Bull Run, many may not realize that his letter was never mailed. Rather, he left it among his personal effects, knowing that, if he were killed in battle, Sarah would find the letter among his belongings when they were eventually shipped home. And, according to the story, that is how she came to find it.

Sarah would never remarry, raising her two sons, and making do on the $29 per month she received from a government pension along with money she earned from teaching piano lessons. In 1875, she became the secretary of the Providence School Committee, where she served until 1899. She eventually moved to East Orange, New Jersey to be near her grown son, Willie. She died in 1917 at the age of 81 and, on a pleasant spring day with a light rain falling, Sarah was laid to rest in Swan Point Cemetery next to her husband. The original copy of the letter from Sullivan has never been found and one story states that is because Sarah asked her sons to place it in her hands and bury it with her. I cannot confirm the truth of that story, but, if it isn’t true, it probably should be.

In his own way, Sullivan Ballou would eloquently express what thousands of men probably felt both that night in July 1861 and in the many nights that would follow over the next four years of the war: Dedication to country and cause, combined with intense devotion to home and family. That’s why, for me, Sullivan Ballou and his letter to Sarah have come to symbolize the generation that fought this war. His passionate belief in the cause of preserving the Union, of securing what Lincoln would call the “last, best hope” of all humanity, rings forth with true passion. But, at the same time, his love for Sarah and his intense devotion to her is also equaling overpowering.

In that sense, I must admit that Sullivan’s letter also goes far beyond either its symbolism as being emblematic of his generation or of being merely “romantic.” It is a passionate expression of a love felt so deeply, that it will somehow survive death and truly be eternal. In that sense, it is the living example of the love all of us probably seek both to give and to receive during our lifetime.

I think it is time for me to stop talking and allow Sullivan Ballou to speak for himself. For those who have never heard the letter, as well as those who might want to hear it again, here is Sullivan’s remarkable, beautiful, and, yes, tragic letter to his beloved Sarah, both in audio and in text, as it was presented by Ken Burns.

July 14, 1861
Camp Clark, Washington

Dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days - perhaps tomorrow. And lest I should not be able to write you again I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I am no more.

I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing - perfectly willing - to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this government, and to pay that debt.

Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but omnipotence can break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly with all those chains to the battlefield. The memory of all the blissful moments I have enjoyed with you come crowding over me, and I feel most deeply grateful to God and you, that I have enjoyed them for so long. And how hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes and future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and see our boys grown up to honorable manhood around us.

If I do not return, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I loved you, nor that when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name...

Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless, how foolish I have sometimes been!...

But, 0 Sarah, if the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they love, I shall always be with you, in the brightest day and in the darkest night... always, always. And when the soft breeze fans your cheek, it shall be my breath, or the cool air your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.

Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for me, for we shall meet again...