_A Preface_
Fredericksburg sprawls at the foot of the hills where the scented summer
winds sweep over it out of the valley of brawling waters above. The grass
grows lush in the meadows and tangles in the hills that almost surround
it. In spring the flowers streak the lowlands, climb on the slopes, and
along the ridges; and Autumn makes fair colors in the trees, shading them
in blood crimson, weathered bronze, and the yellow of sunsets.
Over its shadowed streets hangs the haze of history. It is not rich nor
proud, because it has not sought; it is quiet and content, because it has
sacrificed. It gave its energy to the Revolution. It gave its heart to the
Confederacy; and, once when it was thundered at by guns, and red flames
twisted in its crumbling homes, it gave its soul and all it possessed to
the South. It never abated its loyalty nor cried out its sorrows.
In Fredericksburg, and on the battlefields near it, almost thirty thousand
men lay on the last couch in the shadowy forests and--we think--heard Her
voice calling and comforting them. To the wounded, the Old Town gave its
best, not visioning the color of their uniforms, nursing them back to
life: And, broken and twisted and in poverty, it began to rebuild itself
and gather up the shattered ideals of its dead past.
Out of its heart has grown simple kindness; out of its soul simple faith.
As I look out over the streets, (I knew them well when Lee and Jackson and
Stuart, Lincoln and Grant and Hancock knew them too), they shimmer in the
Autumn sun. Over them, as has ever seemed to me, hangs an old and haunting
beauty. There may not be as great men here as long ago, but here are their
descendants and the descendants of others like them. And he who comes
among them will find loyal hearts and warm hand-clasps.
Ah, I know the old town. My bare feet ran along its unpaved walks and
passed the cabins many a time in slavery days. I knew it in the Civil War
and reconstruction days, and on and on till now: And it has not failed its
duty.
Fredericksburg's history brims with achievement and adventure. It has not
been tried in this volume to tell all of these. I have tried to tell a
simple story, with the flame of achievement burning on the shrines and the
echoes of old days sweeping through it, like low winds in the pine woods;
to make men and women more vivid than dates and numbers. I have tried to
be accurate and complete and to vision the past, but above all, I have
loved the things of which I have written.
There is no possibility of expressing the gratitude the author feels for
the aid given him by others, but he must say, briefly, that without the
assistance of Miss Dora Jett, Mrs. Franklin Stearns, Mrs. John T.
Goolrick, and Dr. J. N. Barney, Mr. Chester B. Goolrick and Mr. John T.
Goolrick, Jr., the book could not have been made as readable as we hope
the public will find it. We owe just as deep thanks to Miss Sally Gravatt
of the Wallace Library.