The work of one author, Herbert Collingwood, also showed a deep commitment to sectional reconciliation. In 1889 Collingwood published Andersonville Violets: A Story of Northern and Southern Life. Born in New England, Collingwood moved to the South in the 1880s and spent a few years farming in Mississippi before returning North and writing his novel, which he hoped would remind readers that it was “the duty of all patriotic citizens to lend their best efforts to the task of looking at the causes of the war, and its results, fairly and intelligently.” The plot of the novel centered on the mutual respect between a Union prisoner who daringly escapes from Anderson-ville and a Confederate guard at the prison discharged for refusing to shoot a prisoner who crossed the deadline. When, years later, the two men find themselves living in the same Mississippi town, they recognize each other and become fast friends. Throughout the novel, in which Collingwood reveals his concerns about a South torn by racial questions and commercial exploitation, the horrors experienced at Andersonville represent the burden of the southern past. Despite the obstacles, however, Collingwood’s characters find peace and strength in the bonds they formed at the prison, and “so much happiness” replaces “so much misery.” Collingwood’s optimism showed in his sincere belief that even the brutality of Civil War prisons should not discourage a spirit of forgiveness between the North and South. In reconciliation, he argued, America would discover new strength.72
Although the open-mindedness of Collingwood, Wyeth, and Stanley revealed the first signs of a desire to end the long hostility over the divisive memories of Civil War prisons, those signs remained overshadowed by the ongoing animosity that most Americans still held regarding the prison controversy. Bitter rhetoric continued to dominate the memory of prisoner suffering as it had since the 1860s. The intensity with which Americans disputed the meaning of Civil War prisons in the late nineteenth century reflected the uncertainty of a country in transition. The myriad, often conflicting interpretations of the wartime prisons by different groups existed as part of the larger process of shaping how an emerging modern America understood its past. Northerners continued to define the memory of the prison tragedy as they attempted to bolster support for the Republican Party, to instill reverence for the heroism and sacrifice displayed by Union prisoners, and to inspire a reunited country to honor the cause of American nationalism. White southerners, still on the defensive, refused to accept their assigned role as “depraved” villains and, as part of the emerging Lost Cause reinvention of the memory of the war, mounted a spirited rhetorical campaign to honor their dead prisoners and exonerate themselves—if not in the eyes of the North—at least in the verdict of history. Although white Americans, preoccupied with their selective memories, increasingly distanced themselves from, or, as in the case of many white southerners, defiantly rejected the cause of racial justice, African Americans continued to remember Civil War prisons, most notably with vibrant Memorial Day celebrations, as symbols of freedom. Along with the sectional arguments, however, new trends emerged adding further complexity to the recollection of Civil War prisons. For a few, the prison controversy reminded Americans of the powerlessness of the individual, no matter how heroic, against the increasing capability of governments and organizations for evil. The capitalistic recreations of Libby and Andersonville, meanwhile, offered Americans a chance to experience the history of Civil War prisons for themselves, testified to the potent influence the Civil War still had on American public memory, and even encouraged the tentative possibility of eventual reconciliation. Regardless of whether Americans restated old arguments or constructed new interpretations, the urgency with which they contested and invented their memories of Civil War prisons resulted from the shared sense that, in a rapidly changing world, the ability to define the meaning of the past offered the only real source of stability in the present.
4
“We Are the Living Witnesses”
THE LIMITATIONS OF RECONCILIATION, 1898–1914
In 1898, the outbreak of the Spanish-American War confirmed the restoration of the bonds between the North and South. The sweeping success of the United States military in Cuba and the Philippines contributed to the growing feeling that perhaps the terrible divisions of the Civil War could be considered fully healed. As the war ended and the United States joined the ranks of imperial powers, America’s destiny, once imperiled by the devastation of the Civil War, now appeared bright. On December 14, 1898, President McKinley basked in the afterglow of the convincing victory over Spain and remarked to an Atlanta crowd that “sectional feeling no longer holds back the love we bear each other.” The proof, he argued, “is found in the gallant loyalty to the Union and the flag so conspicuously shown in the year just passed.”1 The popularity of the Spanish-American War, especially in the South, testified to the true patriotism of the maligned ex-Confederate states and heightened the spirit of reconciliation across America.2 The resulting sense of optimism created by the Spanish-American War and the demonstration of American military prowess also fueled an increased national appreciation for the fading Civil War generation, the rapidly disappearing war heroes of the 1860s. With America secure in the knowledge that her fortunes were once again on the rise, the imminent deaths of the remaining Civil War veterans between 1898 and 1914 provided Americans with a final chance to acknowledge the shared sacrifices of the soldiers of the Union and Confederacy.
Between 1865 and 1898, celebrations held by and for Civil War veterans focused primarily on parades, monument dedications, and battlefield gatherings and were attended with increasing frequency by both Union and Confederate soldiers. Such reunions remained popular after the turn of the century. Year after year, famous battlefields hosted ceremonies where the dwindling numbers of blue and gray mingled, swapped stories, and relived the excitement of the war. Naturally the battlefields attracted the largest crowds, because the grounds consecrated by the tragic end of the thousands sacrificed to the cause of a reunified nation had become “sacred” sites for all Americans.3 Northern acceptance of much of the southern combination of Lost Cause mythology and Jim Crow segregation contributed to the shared spirit of self-congratulation surrounding the Civil War. At these memorial events, speakers acknowledged the equal bravery and martial spirit of both sides, and with the important outcome—the preservation of the Union—achieved, the question of race faded from the American mind.4 With the smashing success of the Spanish-American War, the growing sentiment of mutual forgiveness and shared celebration even seemed to encompass the still painful and controversial subject of Civil War prisons, as the rituals of reunions and monuments extended past the battlefield to old prison sites.
By the turn of the century, many northerners, inspired by the national sense of reconciliation, finally demonstrated a desire to forgive the Confederate transgressions against Union prisoners. In the immediate aftermath of the Spanish-American War, northerners embarked on numerous pilgrimages to the old Confederate prison locales at Andersonville and Salisbury. During the first two decades of the twentieth century almost all the northern states commissioned and unveiled monuments at one or both of these Confederate prisons in commemoration of the thousands of Union dead. As scholars Thomas Brown and Kirk Savage have shown, the establishment of Civil War monuments held great significance and represented an ongoing process of “negotiation” about the “cumulative” meaning of the war.5 The construction of prison memorials offered a way to acknowledge specifically the sacrifice and heroism displayed by Union prisoners of war. These tributes recognized the dead, confirmed the cause of reunification, and testified to the example of courage displayed by those fortunate enough to have survived the ordeal. The process of dedicating these monuments also reflected and encouraged the national atmosphere of growing reconciliation. Instead of continuing to harp on the old divisive memories, many participants in the ceremonies at last seemed willing to part with their anger.
In 1898, New Jersey commissioned the building of a monument at Andersonville in the national cemeter
y, adjacent to the old stockade grounds, where the 13,000 dead prisoners rested in their graves. The $2,000 monument, constructed primarily of granite, honored the 235 New Jersey soldiers who died at the Georgia prison as “heroes” who, as the inscription on the monument stated, chose “death before dishonor.” Dishonor would have been to swear loyalty to the Confederacy and gain freedom from the suffering inside the Andersonville stockade, an option taken by few Union captives. Capped by a statue of a standing soldier, the impressive tribute confidently radiated the virtuous northern memory of Civil War prisons. The active recasting of the dead prisoners as powerful, conscious saviors of the Union reflected the exultant mood of a nation savoring the victory of the Spanish-American War. In such a patriotic environment, the particular misery of Andersonville no longer mattered as much. The magnanimous atmosphere of the monument’s dedication further confirmed that past sufferings had been repaid with current glory. The New Jersey contingent that attended the unveiling of the display on February 3, 1899, took pride in the “creditable distinction of having first erected a monument to the memory of its dead, buried in this cemetery.” The northern rancor normally directed at Wirz, Davis, Winder, and the Confederacy in general was markedly absent from the proceedings. “The prison,” the report of the dedication concluded, instead of being noted as a place of unprecedented brutality and inhumanity, “was a place where true character developed itself.” New Jersey’s attempt to recognize permanently the laudable aspects of Andersonville—northern prisoners caring as best they could for one another while suffering loyally, in a spirit of sacrifice, for the cause of Union—represented an important step forward in the process of sectional reconciliation. At last some northerners seemed willing to extend an olive branch despite the hard memories of Civil War prisons.6
Following New Jersey’s lead, over the next decade more Union states commissioned and dedicated monuments of their own, and as the years passed, both the monuments and the ceremonies grew increasingly elaborate.7 On December 7, 1905, Pennsylvania dedicated its $10,000 monument, a thirty-five-foot-tall archway topped with a bronze statue of a “dejected and sad” prisoner of war who stood overlooking the national cemetery. One dedication panel read, simply, “In Memoriam.” Although not as strident as New Jersey’s state monument, the Pennsylvania display similarly omitted specific reference to the horrors of prisoner suffering, as even the “dejected and sad” prisoner of war appeared to be in far better condition than most of the real Andersonville survivors. The dominant message remained one of gratitude for the sacrifice of the Andersonville dead.8
In addition to the funds lavished on the monument’s construction, Pennsylvania spent an additional $16,000 on transportation so that the state’s Andersonville survivors could attend en masse. Three hundred eighty-one of the former prisoners, nearly 80 percent of the 482 still living, made the trip to Georgia, an indication of their undimmed desire to remember their suffering. From the opening prayer, given by the Reverend J. R. Greene, a Grand Army of the Republic chaplain, the spirit of reverence for the sacrifice of the dead and the new atmosphere of sectional reconciliation dominated the ceremonies. Although the dead prisoners “fell not in the front of battle,” Greene stated, “they were heroes every one,” demonstrating “patient bravery” and suffering “untold agonies” out of an unwavering sense of “loyalty and honor.” Descriptions of the martyrdom and heroism displayed by the Andersonville prisoners had been heard before. But as Greene continued, the importance of the Spanish-American War in finally starting to heal the wounds kept raw by the power of memory became clear. “Out of the carnage of war has come these days of peace,” Greene declared, and “the animosities of the past have been obliterated, that the blue and the gray now mingle in fraternal sympathy, and that our sons and theirs go forth together to fight the battles of our common country, following the old flag, the one flag, in its victories on the land and on the sea.”9 Greene’s prayer, reminiscent of President McKinley’s belief that Americans had finally come to terms with the past, offered confirmation of the rising tide of reconciliation. Delivered at the actual grounds of Andersonville, the center of the postwar prison controversy, it showed the growing optimism felt by many Americans that perhaps the competing divisive memories of Civil War prisons might fade completely, to be replaced by a reunified patriotism.
As officials and dignitaries from northern states came to Andersonville to dedicate their monuments to the dead, the spirit of forgiveness they demonstrated corresponded to the warm welcome they received from their Georgia hosts. The guests from Pennsylvania, according to a December 8, 1905, article in the Americus Times-Recorder, received a “cordial welcome,” and “fraternal good feeling was in evidence upon every hand.” The event stirred such positive feelings of reconciliation that both hosts and guests would remember it “with much pleasure.”10 And with more northern states continuing to add to the rapidly expanding collection of monuments at Andersonville, residents of Americus, rather than displaying defensiveness and frustration, instead focused on providing southern hospitality. When Wisconsin scheduled its commemoration exercises for October 17, 1907, and Connecticut its monument unveiling for one week later, the Times-Recorder announced on September 13 that it welcomed the “distinguished party” to at least “stop in Americus” and extended an invitation “to make Americus headquarters during their stay in the South.” After all, the editor continued, during the previous visit of the Pennsylvania delegation, the governor of Pennsylvania and the “entire party were handsomely entertained” just ten miles from Andersonville, and “with ample hotel accommodations” available, Wisconsin and Connecticut deserved the same courtesy.11 Though the potential financial windfall of northern dollars no doubt contributed to the eager invitations, the cathartic, patriotic ceremonies at the prison indicated the maturing process of reconciliation between North and South. In 1911, when New York and Illinois added their monuments, an editor at the Times-Recorder declared the two new monuments “superb” and stated that “each state monument that is erected at Andersonville seems to display better taste and a more gracious spirit than its predecessors.”12 That spirit was the product of years of profitable interaction between the Union veterans and their once Confederate hosts as they met repeatedly at Andersonville to remember the horrors of the past. Although intended as a permanent tribute to the thousands of dead prisoners, the process of dedicating the northern monuments created a secondary effect—for many it defused the sectional memories of Civil War prisons as northern visitors and southern hosts cooperated to make each celebration successful.
While Andersonville remained the focal point of attention for northern memorials and visitors, Salisbury also served as host to northern delegations and monuments during the early twentieth century.13 On June 8, 1908, the Maine contingent arrived to dedicate its tribute to the victims of the North Carolina prison. As at Americus and Andersonville, the people of Salisbury gave the northern veterans a warm reception. The mayor of Salisbury, ex-Confederate soldier A. H. Boyden, offered an “earnest, hearty welcome” and declared his excitement that “the season of heated blood has passed.” Boyden’s wife helped unveil the monument as the “Star-Spangled Banner” played. In response to such generosity of spirit, one of the Maine dignitaries, Adjutant General Augustus B. Farnham acknowledged that, happily, today “only the kindliest feelings existed” between North Carolina and Maine. After another Maine speaker, Charles Newell, reminded the audience of the patriotic example of the ex-Confederate turned Spanish-American War heroes Generals Fitzhugh Lee and Joe Wheeler, the crowd “repaired to the handsome home” of the Salisbury mayor, where the “visitors received their first real impressions of true Southern hospitality.”14 The report of the festivities omitted whether any of those who attended the harmonious ceremony noted that just two decades before, such an event would have been unthinkable.
As each northern delegation returned home, word spread of both the gracious generosity encountered in the South and, in particula
r, thanks to the dedicated efforts of the Women’s Relief Corps in caring for the Andersonville site, the idealized beauty of the prison grounds. The pristine appearance of the cemetery—with its tree-lined boulevards and state monuments rising among the immaculate gravestones—created a scene of idyllic patriotism that imparted a comforting meaning to the particular horrors of Andersonville’s past. Interest in Andersonville rose accordingly. Visitors no longer waited for Memorial Day celebrations or monument dedications to plan excursions to see the old stockade and national cemetery. By 1908, Sarah Winans, acting chairman of the WRC, remarked that maintaining Andersonville had become “arduous,” primarily due to the constant job of “welcoming the increasing number of visitors, comrades especially” who traveled individually or in small groups to the prison to pay their own respects. With more state monuments planned for the future, the effort required of the WRC seemed likely to rise. Many members of the WRC realized that their organization had reached the limit of what it could accomplish at Andersonville and decided to offer the eighty-eight-acre site as a “free gift, unencumbered,” to the national government, “because of a belief that these grounds should be under the control and protection of the United States.” On March 2, 1910, President Taft accepted the gift, and later that year, at the official deed transfer ceremony, Lewis Call, one of the government’s representatives, promised the WRC “that the grounds will ever be held as a memorial of the heroism of the men who there proved themselves the highest type of patriots.”15 The Taft administration’s possession of Andersonville testified to the powerful immediacy and ambiguity of the conflicting emotions connected to memories of Civil War prisons. As the first and only former Confederate prison site preserved by the federal government, Andersonville became enshrined partly as a symbol of the unspeakable atrocities committed by the Confederacy. But the countering influence of reconciliation was apparent as well, as the site also represented a permanent reminder of the brave sacrifice made by 13,000 Union soldiers and a celebration of the increasingly powerful country they died to save.
Haunted by Atrocity Page 12