Chapter XII: A United Citizenship

When the reconstruction of the Southern states had been accomplished by our representatives taking their seats in the halls of legislation, we felt that we were again a part of this great nation. The South then started on an era of prosperity; it was not the new South, but the old South, with new life infused into it. We had been slaves to our slaves, and now we were freemen, as the yoke of slavery had been lifted from our necks. Whatever of bitterness had been felt was fast disappearing; in fact, there was always less prejudice between the men who fought each other than by the noncombatants of both sides. Between the old soldiers it was as with the schoolboys—one a stalwart, the other a weakling—engaging in a fight. The stalwart overpowers the puny one, and feels sorry, and they make up, and are faster friends than before. Such was the case with many of the boys in blue, who said: “We fought you with all the Americans we could muster, and then gave bounty to all the foreigners we could get, and also armed many of your former slaves to fight. We overpowered you, boys, and are sorry for it.” And you know sympathy begets love, and that is why the boys in blue, when we go north of the river and attend their camp fires, make us welcome guests. Some of them felt so sorry for us that they suggested that we ought to receive pensions, and when the matter was agitated in certain sections the bivouacs of the South were _unanimous_ in repudiating it. We have condemned pensions, except in cases of disability, because it discounts patriotism; and a Southern soldier who deserted his flag and joined the enemy and now receives a pension is getting a premium on perjury.

When the Spanish-American War came on, the men of the blue and the men of the gray stood shoulder to shoulder, the sons of the men who wore the blue and the gray in 1861-65 marched step with step, and won the victory that made us feel proud that we were Americans. Our country was thus cemented as never before, and prejudices gave way to an era of good feeling throughout this Union.

I wish that every American citizen could have been with comrade S. A. Cunningham and me and witnessed the unveiling of the bronze statue erected to the memory of the private Confederate soldier over the graves of our two thousand two hundred and sixty dead at Camp Chase, near Columbus, Ohio, June 14, 1902. The history of the monument is as follows: Colonel W. H. Knauss was a member of a Pennsylvania regiment, and was badly wounded at Fredericksburg, Va., the wound being so severe that the surgeons said he could not recover, and he was unconscious for some weeks. He finally recovered, and after the war moved to Columbus, Ohio, and engaged in the real estate business. Soon after he reached Columbus he commenced to look after the graves of our two thousand two hundred and sixty dead at Camp Chase, four miles from Columbus. He found the graves in a common overgrown with bushes and weeds, which he soon had cut and the ground put in good shape, and asked Governor Foraker to recommend to the Legislature an appropriation of $4,000, which was made, and the cemetery was inclosed in a substantial fence. Colonel Knauss then got an oval stone which, I think, would weigh about two tons. On this stone he inscribed: “Two thousand two hundred and sixty Confederate soldiers buried here; died in Camp Chase Prison, 1861-65.” He then commenced to send appeals to the South each June, and he called public meetings of G. A. R. men, the Daughters of the Confederacy, the Bivouacs and Daughters of the Grand Army Circle, and he put these combined influences to work, and for years has had each June a successful decoration. He then conceived the idea of erecting a monument to the private Confederate soldier, and he had all his plans made, and approached Mr. W. H. Harrison, a wealthy manufacturer of Columbus, and said: “Mr. Harrison, here are the plans for the monument. These men fought for what they thought was right, and were as much entitled to their opinions as I was to mine, and they died away from home and among strangers and foes.” Mr. Harrison was so struck with Colonel Knauss’s enthusiasm that he said: “Build the monument according to your plans, and send me the bill.”

Therefore, on that bright June day was assembled a vast multitude of citizens, Grand Army men, and ex-Confederates. A special train was run from Charleston, W. Va., bringing the boys in gray and their families to the unveiling. We met and clasped hands with Governor Nash and Judge Pugh, both of whom had followed General Grant at Vicksburg. We were accorded a place on the programme, and followed Governor Nash and Judge Pugh, and spoke in the uniform of Company B, Confederate Veterans, and did our best to picture the deeds of the boys in gray. On the platform with us were the Daughters of the Confederacy and Grand Army Circle. We could not tell one from the other so far as enthusiasm went. We did recognize them, however, from their badges. Just before the service commenced Colonel Knauss came to each of the Confederates on the platform and whispered: “Boys, when the veil is removed from the statue, I want you to give us the old-fashioned Rebel yell.” So we did our best, and the entire throng appeared to enjoy it. We heard the Ohio State Band play “Dixie”; we saw the Ohio State Guards fire a volley over the graves of our dead; we saw the statue standing out like a life figure. The monument had two bases, each starting out on a side of the oval rock, about nine feet high, joined together by an arch. On the arch was inscribed “Americans”: I guess Colonel Knauss did not wish to offend any over-sensitive people by calling them Confederates. On the apex of the arch was the bronze figure of the boy in gray. It was typical of the Confederate private: the empty haversack, the full canteen; the old blanket twisted, tied at both ends, and thrown around the shoulders: trousers stuffed in socks, and shoes well-nigh worn out. He was standing at order arms, and his body was facing his Southland. When I saw this statue I thought of William Stewart Hawkins, the author of “Behind Prison Bars,” a volume he wrote in Camp Chase. Many will recollect his “Letter that Came Too Late.” He died in Nashville November 5, 1865, of the seeds of disease sown in Camp Chase. His last verses were written a few days after the surrender of General Lee, and were written behind prison bars as he looked out upon the graves of the two thousand two hundred and sixty dead, who preceded him only a short while. The lines were entitled “Defeated Valor”:

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves;
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause;
Though yet no marble column craves
The pilgrim here to pause.

In the seeds of laurel in the earth
The blossom of your fame is blown;
And somewhere, waiting for its birth,
The shaft is in the stone.