Journal Entry; near the house of Mr. Wilmer McLean in the
; 3pm, April 9, 1865 village of Appomattox Courthouse
Soon, there will be a flurry of couriers riding under white flags of truce; a pale flag, the colors not yet dyed in the new fabric of this union. The bloodstains will not wash away in one day. What we have lost has been large, but what we have learned could bring this union closer to what our forefathers and mothers intended. Union; there is no separation. Each in all, all in each.
My last duty as courier will be to deliver the news to my brothers of the 9th Virginia Cavalry. I rode this morning with the entourage of General Robert E. Lee to meet General Grant. They have been inside the
McLean family’s home for some time discussing terms of surrender. Many men are outside, waiting; all eyes are on the quiet house. I turn my attention to a mockingbird in a mulberry tree; a tree more grand than mine back in the Wilderness, if indeed a mulberry might be given such status.
I had such grand ideas about this journey; the places I would visit, the people I would meet, the culture I would carry back, the progress of men and machines across the miles I would travel. Like Lewis and Clark, or Lewis Carroll, all travelers to Wonderlands; that would be me.
What I learned was that the greatest joy was not in grand places, but in the smallest moments of quiet; the seemingly insignificant sounds and scenes. Mockingbird, in his grey, plain jacket, does not need the rooster’s red cockscomb; we do not watch him prance; we listen to his beauty hidden in the trees. He finds every song worth singing. Mockingbird absorbs every song he’s heard and shares them with everyone; I should absorb the voices of the boys that no longer speak. I am all of them; I should speak for them, so their melancholy songs are not hidden in the trees, lost to the times. With war’s end, there will be much talk of grand battles, and massive volumes of war history, but these journals are the voice of the boys in the grey, plain jackets. Those are the voices of this union.
Journal Entry; 5pm, April 9, 1865
Today, while an army surrenders, war will not end. I am finished with this war, but I fear this war is not finished with me. This is not the end.