Near the battery, I
can feel the heartache of hundreds of young lovers as they watched their
men, in shining buttons and steely grey
prepare for war.
Girls, barely old
enough to know why, kissed boys with clean faces and fire in their eyes, not
knowing they would come home with bitter tears on weathered cheeks-if they came
home at all.
The trumpets, the
parades, the boasting! Rich and poor brought together by a common brotherhood,
exchanged drinks and tall tales of southern strength and pride.
Fort Sumter, the
place that changed the face of America-the painful choice of General Anderson,
his inability to staunch the bloodlust that had begun to sweep both the north
and the south. Proud men, full of honor, given to protect their homeland-separated
by their definition, forced to take up arms against each other.
Streets that once
rang with shouts and cheers lay silent in siege. A proud city, like its people,
fell defeated. The glory of war was traded for the brutality of brothers
bitterly opposed. The marching bands and pre-war balls gave way to dirges and
empty seats. Boastful lips fell silent, as men struggled to adjust to life as
cripples, missing so much more than an arm, a leg, an eye. The way of life that
they had left would never return again, except in the imagination of those
walking the streets today.
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