A Peace Treaty, At Last

I've wanted to visit Appomattox Court House for a long time. After visiting battlefields for four years since moving to Charlottesville, I've wanted to visit the place where the Civil War ended. Today we made it to that place.

Nearly one hundred and fifty years ago this was just small village consisting of a court house, a couple taverns, some shops and offices, and a dozen homes. On the morning of April 9, 1965 the final shots of this battle were fired before a trapped General Robert E. Lee arranged a surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia to General Ulisses S. Grant. We read dozens of accounts of that day, and each of them was emotional.

With hindsight as my guide, I couldn't help but feel relief. After all I have learned, I have come to realize that there were good men and women on both sides of this war. Our failure to compromise led the loss of hundreds of thousands of lives. Thankfully, President Lincoln wasn't defeated before the war ended. I believe his vision was the necessary outcome but I still hate that so many good families were destroyed by our inability to reach that outcome without years of tragic loss of life.

We walked through the Court House museum and learned how the surrender was inevitable, how Lee fought until there was no way out. I was touched by the collection of flags and the loyalty and patriotism they represented.

I was touched by the stories of valor and devotion and suffering. 

Amazingly, the McClean family, on whose land the very first battle of the Civil War at Manassas was fought, hosted the signing of the peace treaty. Before that first battle they had retreated hundreds of miles from Northern Virginia past the thousands of Confederate armies in their front yard to a quiet village named Appomattox in central Virginia. There they lived for the duration of the four years of war until the battle came to their home again. By sheer coincidence their parlor was chosen as a suitable spot for the two generals to meet. True story! They could truly say "the Civil War started in our backyard and ended in our parlor." 

This was a family home. Five children lived here with their parents. I can't imagine how little sleep they got over the days and months that followed. I can't imagine the mixed feelings they felt at the war's end, but they were no doubt annoyed by the gawkers and interruptions to their everyday life.

Somehow every building in the village seemed important, though this parlor of the McClean House was the spot where Lee and Grant spoke and made arrangements for ninety minutes before Lee rode off on the stage road to be with his men again.

None of this is original. The house was dismantled with plans of reconstructing it in the nation's capital. Bits and pieces of it like the marble-topped table were taken away, sold, and traded as objects of interest. In the 1940 it was rebuilt to look like it did in 1865. I love wandering through old homes and imagining the sounds and conversations that would have filled its corners. I imagine children playing in the sun at the top of this stairwell.

I can imagine discussions about bedtimes and nap times in the three bedrooms.

I can imagine conversations at the dinner table about politics and war actions, chores and menu items, schedules and budgets. I love the extra seating against the wall and the highchair at the table.

The warming kitchen would have been my favorite spot with a house full of family. I forgot to snap photos of the slave quarters and detached kitchen. If I get a do-over, I'll spend them there.

We wandered through the wintered streets of the village on this warm day and I snapped photos of the houses and shops. The properties fit together tightly--this is a very small space.  Every structure seemed important to me because this was the site where peace was figured.

It's hard to believe that fighting lasted through the morning of the 9th, the last cannon shots being fired from the yard of this home. The treaty was signed just hours later. What strange irony that blood was spilt with the surrender in sight. 

Over the course of six days, 22,000 Confederate soldiers marched up this road to give up their guns and flags and to receive their parole. 

By all accounts, the variety of responses to the defeat were as varied as the men who were forced to surrender. Many cried. Many prayed. Many honored their General with tears and a handshake. Many smashed their weapons in anger or refused to get their parole papers, drifting into the woods to try to escape to their homes on their own.

I confess I felt a little closure. I try to teach our children to be peacemakers, and, though I'm still learning how that is achieved, I am glad to know that some men are wise enough to back away from war to preserve life, dignity, and families.

The spring-like day made it a little easier to imagine the conditions of that morning. I hope that the sun warmed them and gave them hope for their future as a nation and courage for the monumental task of reconstruction ahead of them.