Peyton condemns the military court of Davis and the intrenched
pageantry of Lee's idle forces. The other armies of the Confederacy
fought, half supplied, giving up all to hold the Virginia lines.
He cannot yet realize that either Sherman or Grant might have
baffled Sidney Johnston had he lived. Lee was self-conscious of
his weakness in invasion. He will not own that Philip Sheridan's
knightly sword might have reached the crest of the unconquered
Stonewall Jackson.
Vain regret, shadowy dreams, and sad imaginings fill Colonel
Peyton's mind. The thrilling struggles of the Army of the West, its
fruitless victories, and unrewarded heroism make him proud of its
heroes. Had another policy ruled the Confederate military cabinet,
success was certain. But he is now leaving his friend's grave.
The birds are singing in the forest. As the sun lights up the dark
woods where McPherson died, into Henry Peyton's war-tried soul
enters the peace which broods over field and incense-breathing trees.
Far in the East, the suns of future years may bring happier days,
when the war wounds are healed. The brothers of the Union may find
a nobler way to reach each other's hearts than ball or bayonet.
But he cannot see these gleams of hope.
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