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an ongoing series by Thomas E. Kennedy and Walter Cummins
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CONFEDERATES
Essay and photographs by Lisa del Rosso
Confederate cemetery in Fredericksburg, Virginia
(phtograph by Olly Hoeben)
It made me uneasy. My friends and I had just come from the Union Cemetery, where there were speeches and soldiers, and a number of African Americans were present. I doubted any African Americans would have felt welcome here. Then it occurred to me I was being uncharitable, so honor your dead, I thought, but must there be a proliferation of Confederate flags?
I periodically stay at a former plantation not far from both the Union and Confederate cemeteries, along with my friends: two Brits, a Dutchman and a Southern amateur historian.
My friend Patrick Neustatter (one of the Brits) lives with his wife, Paula (the Southern amateur historian), on a 30-acre expanse called “Belle Hill,” circa 1815. I call it “the estate” to tease him, but it is far too ramshackle and welcoming to deserve such a snooty moniker
Belle Hill
I know Patrick through his sister Angie (the other Brit) and her husband, Olly (the Dutchman). I was once nanny to their two small boys in London, where I lived for ten years (though not all of them as their nanny) and met Patrick around the same time. We all sort of fell in love with each other; Angie had no daughter, I had no family in London and a childhood cut short by an acrimonious divorce. Being their boys’ nanny never felt like a job, it was more like being paid to play and wrestle and get mucky. It completed the circle of my interrupted childhood. Next to my mother, there are none closer to me.
So when they come from London to visit Patrick, I come from New York by train to visit all of them.
I didn’t know a whole lot about Fredericksburg or Belle Hill, but the first time I walked through Patrick’s grounds, I noticed trenches and little markers. These were leftover from the Civil War, and their history was explained to me by Paula, who researched diaries from the time period and spoke with descendants of people who actually lived in Belle Hill, as many of the county records prior to 1842 were destroyed by fire. This is from Paula’s blog (http://bellehill.blogspot.com):
During the winter of 1862-63 General Stonewall Jackson’s troops wintered at Moss Neck and the division of Jackson’s troops under the command of Lt General Ambrose P. Hill (for whom A.P. Hill was named) camped in the woods of Belle Hill, Prospect Hill and Santee. The trenches and gun pits dug by those troops 148 years ago are still visible to this day.
Paula said the biggest difference about the house is the way it looked in the winter of 1862-63, which was a trodden mess, to the way it looks now. It began as a 4-room summerhouse, and she surmises it was part of a larger, 200-acre plantation nearby called Prospect Hill that bordered the Santee plantation.
Now, the house is a sprawling place with too many rooms to count, perfect for when loads of people come to stay for weeks on end. The grounds look like a bucolic, forested wonderland, complete with a lake and the most spectacular sunsets over the Blue Ridge Mountains, six counties away. One can see this from the dining room, every single night. My envy knows no bounds.
Belle Hill grounds and the Blue Ridge Mountains
There is the wildlife. Birds: cardinals, hummingbirds, mocking birds, sparrows, goldfinches, morning doves and more I cannot identify. Bugs and large flying creatures I choose not to identify. We came home from a dinner in Richmond a few nights ago, and no one had managed to remember to leave any lights on. As we pulled in, headlights blazing, it looked like three families of deer had been picnicking on the front lawn with their children, and we had spoiled their party. They ran off, and we oohed and aahed. We city folk, that is. For Paddy and Paula, this is the norm in their fairly isolated, spectacular spot.
The average daily routine has been as follows: yoga w/Angie and Olly at 9 AM on the outside deck for an hour, to Hyperion at 11 for a coffee, then off for a walk somewhere for hours, then afternoon reading and talking and talking and talking and perhaps Tango (Angie and Olly) or taking photographs (Olly or occasionally, me), cocktail hour at 6, dinner at 7:30, then fighting over which movie to watch and Angie is the bossiest so she usually wins, then the older folks to bed between 11-12 AM while I go upstairs and try to write something, then fall asleep. Olly turned to me after one more blissful day and said, ‘I could get used to this, eh?” I said, with mixed feelings, “Me, too.”
Auction Block and Plaque |
There is a guesthouse on the property, where Angie and Olly are put so they don’t cause too much disruption. This was originally the slave quarters/kitchen to the main house. Before the Civil War, Fredericksburg had a thriving slave trade. In fact, walking to the butcher’s in the center of town I passed a stump of some sort, stopped and doubled back: it was a preserved slave auction block, with a plaque in front of it which read, |
Apart from the stump, Fredericksburg is quaint in an old town, small scale, preserved New England kind of way. It is charming, with antique shops, mom-and-pop restaurants and flower pots dotting the sidewalks. There are even a few wonderful thrift and consignment shops (my personal weakness). The city seems keen on keeping older buildings alive, and it is a pleasure to spend time wandering around, with no particular destination. If one is so inclined, Fredericksburg also has a terrific, informative museum, comprising two entire, three-floor buildings containing both permanent and temporary exhibitions (and free for educators, a nice plus for visiting adjunct professors). There is a Fredericksburg at War section, detailing the slave trade before the war, freedom after and struggle for equality; George Washington’s Mason membership; while “Our Community” considers Fredericksburg’s African American community via the Civil Rights Movement up to the present day.
Fredericksburg
On Memorial Day, Ang, Olly and I were taken to the Union cemetery for a ceremony. There was a man dressed up as Lincoln, a man dressed up as Grant, a woman as Mary Lincoln, etc.... There was a knowledgeable Civil War scholar who drew a diverse crowd and a soldier in Union garb standing sentient waiting to play taps. As we were leaving Ang and I got talking about the unfairness of war; that is, if you had enough money you could buy yourself out of fighting in the Civil War, so as usual, the poor and working class fight the battles others create. Then I said, Yes, but say this war wasn't fought, then what? The South secedes. There's no body of water between North and South so it's always a hostile border. And it didn't begin because of slavery but that is what it came to be about, so then what? We still have slaves today? No. That war had to be fought and Lincoln was the right man for the job. And Angie said, Well, it's just like World War II. Do you let Hitler do a takeover, exterminate everyone except the Aryans and then what? Hitler takes over the world? That war absolutely had to be fought, and as Lincoln was the right man for the job, so was Churchill; bloody Chamberlain just would have let the whole thing happen.
Then we went and had a lovely lunch.
History is history because it can be judged from a distance; and judged easily when it is not my head on the chopping block, not my brother’s, not my sister’s, not my family, not my friends.
Actually, before we went to lunch, Paula and Paddy wanted to take us to the Confederate Cemetery. It's a little bit of a misnomer; the Fredericksburg Confederate Cemetery, dedicated in 1870, is small and a larger non-denominational cemetery has been built around it. Lee, or someone who looks like a noted Confederate leader stands on a hill. Its upkeep is the responsibility of aforementioned The Ladies’ Memorial Association.
This is from the Memorial Day Speech, May 31, 2010, by Jerry H. Brent:
According similar treatment to the dead was just as important to Southerners as it was to those in the north. By 1864, townspeople had begun to bury Confederates in the City Cemetery, in neat graves. But, after the war ended, the Federal government, quite understandably, was not about to foot the bill to so honor their recently vanquished foe. Thus it fell to private individuals and groups to find the means to create a cemetery for their fallen heroes. In 1866, the Ladies Memorial Association was organized to accomplish this important task. The plan was to raise as much money locally and within the state as possible, and then issue an appeal to be sent all throughout the southern states for funds. In 1867 the association was able to purchase the property that would soon become the Confederate Cemetery. Soon the work began of gathering the dead from the surrounding battlefields resulting in the graves of approximately 3,300 that you see before you today.
I understand all of this. There is a large amount of pride for the Confederate cause in Fredericksburg; it is their heritage, the sacrifices of their forefathers, the convictions of their ancestors and also, at the time, perhaps being exploited by the North economically. But skipping down, I got to:
Thus, at first, all efforts were focused on the proper burial and memorializing of the dead. But once this task was accomplished, there began to be an interest amongst the veterans of the conflict to gather and relive old times and honor their fallen comrades.
Reading “veterans of the conflict to gather and relive old times…” on the Fredericksburg Confederate Cemetery website made me as uneasy as standing among all those tiny Confederate flags.
After Memorial Day, we all took a trip to Washington DC. As Paddy drove, Paula turned to me, pointed, and said, “Look up.”
And there, waving in the wind, was an enormous Confederate Flag, right on the 1-95.
The 90-foot-tall flagpole is firmly — and legally — planted in private property on the other side of a tree barrier from the highway near mile marker 134. The flag, measuring 30 feet by 22 feet, is a reminder that in Virginia, the battles of 150 years ago are still divisive and deeply felt.
This banner was raised by an activist group, the Virginia Flaggers, whose 40 or so core members say they want to protect the Civil War standard. The group rejects the idea that it's a symbol of racism and hate. On the contrary: Barry Isenhour, who is active in the group, says that when he sees the giant flag along the interstate, he feels pride and reverence.
As he drives through Stafford County (Va.) for his work as a sales representative for a winery, Isenhour often thinks of all the Civil War battles that were fought in the area. He has ancestors who fought for the South, some of them buried in unmarked graves.
‘I know there are soldiers up there lying under buildings, under trees, who have never been properly buried. It rends my heart,’ he said. "They are veterans. They put their lives on the line for the common people they love.’
Aston Haughton, president of the Stafford County chapter of the NAACP, sees it differently. The flag, he said, ‘symbolizes racism, oppression. It reminds people of the days of slavery.’
‘It's a racist statement,’ he [Sanchez, a Californian living in Virginia] said. ‘I wish someone would put a flag up right next to it, or across from it. A Union flag.’
(Susan Svrluga, “Confederate Flag along 195 divides Virginia community”)
There you have it, in a nutshell: a tale of two cemeteries.
What I have seen of Virginia is spectacularly beautiful, the people friendly, and I’d like to explore more of the state. Fortunately, I am a good houseguest (I do dishes, cook, and don’t tear open bread through the plastic wrap on the side like a wild animal which leaves a gaping hole, like some other visitors [Angie] I could mention), so I keep getting invited back to Belle Hill. Paula said, “You don’t come here often enough.” Perhaps on the next Memorial Day, it might be an idea for the re-enactors in the Confederate Cemetery and in the Union Cemetery to put down their fake guns and honor their dead together in neutral, de-flagged territory. Then they can all go for a lovely lunch. Because the Civil War is over. Isn’t it?
Lisa del Rosso originally trained as a classical singer and completed a post-graduate program at LAMDA (London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art), living and performing in London before moving to New York City. Her plays “Clare's Room,” and “Samaritan,” have been performed off-Broadway and had public readings, while “St. John,” her third play, was a semi-finalist for the 2011 Eugene O’Neill National Playwrights Conference. Her writing has appeared in a variety of publications, including The New York Times, The Literary Traveler, Serving House Journal (November 2014), Young Minds Magazine (UK), Time Out New York, The Huffington Post, The Neue Rundschau (Germany), Jetlag Café (Germany), Writers On The Job, and One Magazine (UK), for which she writes theater reviews. She is working on a collection of essays and teaches writing at NYU.