Destination Hope - Book 5 - Reconciliation - Epilogue

For new readers to this story, I linked Chapter 1. Chapters 2 - 4 are linked under September, 5 - 10 under October, 11 - 18 under November, 19 - 27 under December, 28 - 34 under January 2019, and 35 - 39 under February.

Destination Hope – Book 5 – Reconciliation

A Novel By:

Charles J. Patricoff 

Copyright © 2014 by Charles J. Patricoff. All rights reserved.

 

Epilogue

A Future and A Hope

Since lunchtime on July 3, 1923, tourists, men, women and children from all walks of life and from all over the country, even some foreign travelers, began to gather behind a rope line south of the town stretching about one mile across an open, undisturbed field. Many in the crowd reminisced about what occurred ten years prior. A park ranger said to his audience, “Then, we estimated about 57,000 veterans participated in re-enacting Pickett’s charge. It was quite exciting to watch.”

A young boy, maybe four or five years old, wearing a confederate soldier’s replica kepi, stared up to his grandfather and asked, “Will there be shooting, Grandpa?”

His smiling grandfather leaned over and said, “I guess we will just have to wait to find out.”

The heat and humidity became oppressive, and there was no shade for the throngs of observers, except for those who knew to bring umbrellas for protection from rain or shine. Around three o’clock in the afternoon a lone bugle call sounded and a single cannon thundered. Minutes later, a long, one-man deep line of men with grey and white hair and beards emerged from the west woods lining Gettysburg’s Seminary Ridge. Every twenty yards, give or take a few, one man would carry the battle flag representing the Southern revolution. Some wore grey uniforms, and others regular modern-day business suits. Many had discarded their jackets and rolled up their shirtsleeves. All wore hats, some replicas of that day sixty years ago.

As these men struggled to walk through waist-high wild grass resembling wheat, grasshoppers, butterflies, moths and other winged insects scattered in all directions disturbed by these intruders of their peace. At the same time, other men wearing blue uniforms appeared to the observer’s left and began to take up positions along a short rock wall and small copse of trees. Several of these distinguished men carried Old Glory flags. Everyone in the crowd knew the re-enactment of Pickett’s Charge had begun.

After fifteen minutes, remnant survivors from Virginia, North and South Carolina, Alabama, Tennessee, Mississippi, and Georgia, reached the Emmitsburg Road, which runs at a diagonal direct from the southwest to the northeast across the field. After they crossed the road, they began to bunch closer together. They kept walking toward men in blue from Pennsylvania, New York, New Jersey, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Delaware, Maine, Minnesota, Michigan, Indiana, Ohio, and West Virginia. It became clear to the adults in the crowd that some of these elderly combatants had great difficulty keeping pace, but still they pressed forward.

The inquisitive lad, sitting on top of his grandfather’s shoulders, asked, “Are they going to start shooting, now?”

“You have to wait and see,” said his grandfather.

From the ranks of the aged Confederates, an order sounded. It echoed down the line. A moment later, a similar order sounded from the staged Union troops.

“Something is going to happen now,” the grandfather said.

The boy’s eyes almost bulged as he grabbed his grandfather’s head.

Everyone heard the final order shouted.

Men on both sides removed their hats and began to wave them at their opponents. A cheer rose from the old soldiers and eventually the crowd joined the celebratory shouting as the Confederates closed on the Yankees standing at the wall. When the former Rebels reached the wall, both sides extended their arms in greeting. The former enemies shook hands, an unforgettable image of national reconciliation.
Buglers ascended the rock wall and began to play the mournful tune now known as "Taps." Many in the crowd began to weep as they remembered the thousands who gave their lives that this one nation, under God, with its new birth of freedom, might live.

“Is that all?” the boy whined.

“I’m afraid so,” said his grandfather.

“This is boring.”

“I’m sorry you think so. Maybe another time you’ll think differently.”

The family patriarch kept his grandson atop his shoulders as the crowd moved north, crossed the Emmitsburg Road and entered the National Cemetery. They gathered around a memorial, and a man dressed like Abraham Lincoln appeared in his famous black suit and stovepipe hat and gave two speeches.

During the first speech, the little boy lost interest, as the man talked about dedicating a final resting place. He laid his head down on top of his grandfather’s and drifted off to sleep. He never heard his grandfather sound the words the speaker said as he ended his presentation.

“With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation’s wound; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan—to do all, which may achieve and cherish a just, and a lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.”

Later, old-soldiers, re-enactors, family members, friends and tourists gathered in the various dining establishments within Gettysburg proper. The grandfather and his inquisitive grandson enjoyed a satisfying meal at O’Rourke’s Inn, a restaurant dedicated to the famous Yankee Irish Brigade. After dinner, the boy is attracted to an artist who is sketching patrons to look as if they were once in one of the battling armies. “Can I go over there and watch him, Grandpa?”

“Sure, but don’t wander off. I’ll only be a few minutes with these fine folks.”

The inquisitive boy dashed across the restaurant and in an instant, he became mesmerized by the charcoal magic appearing before him. His grandfather watched him to make sure he stayed put. The type of person who knows no strangers, he said to folks at the next table, “Did you notice how the patrons are split, even inside this establishment? Do you see? Uniformed Confederate re-enactors are on one side and Yankees on the other.” He pivoted on his seat and asked the younger couple. “Where was I?”

“You were about to tell us about your dad.”

“Well, like I was about to say, before Billy interrupted, my father wanted to be here like he was ten years ago, but…”

“He passed away?”

The older man nodded. It took him a few seconds to gain his composure. To help, he changed the subject a bit. “His best friend, Marvin who married my father's cousin, Margret, well they moved somewhere near Houston, Texas and established a cattle ranch. Marvin passed about fifteen years back. We lost touch with Margaret—not sure, if she’s still alive.

“My mother, Eleanor Ellis Graham, passed in 1905, and my father passed shortly after the 50^th Anniversary of Gettysburg. I think Woodrow Wilson’s election broke his heart. He couldn’t believe the American people threw away their liberty in exchange for his dictatorship. He warned me that Wilson and those like him would drive America down a slow, long descent into the darkness of lost liberty all in the name of sinful progress and the false security that a modern world brings to the community of nations and all peoples.”

“Sounds like another name for Communism,” William’s fellow dinner guest said.

“Maybe, but I guess my dad resented the fact that Wilson fooled so many folks—promising to keep us out of the war to end all wars, and then three months after he took the oath of office, he sent our boys overseas. Dad rejected Wilson’s dishonest, academic argument that our Constitution had outlived its usefulness and was no longer relevant to a contemporary society. And I know my father disapproved of Wilson’s attitude toward education.

“You know, Wilson believed the purpose of education is to make a son as little as his father. For example, if a man believes that God is the Creator of the Universe, the education system must challenge this thinking in the man’s child. To combat Wilson’s notions, dad admonished me to make my children’s and grandchildren’s education a high priority and ensure they know the truth. That’s why we’re here.

“Morrow and me, and our son, moved to Charlotte, North Carolina and took over a dairy farm my father purchased sometime after the war.” William could tell his listeners drifted. He changed the subject. “Billy, my grandson, is around here somewhere.” William stretched his frame and caught his grandson’s attention. Little Billy hurried to the table.

“Billy, I’d like to introduce you to these folks. They came all the way from Colorado to visit Gettysburg.”

The pretty, fair-skinned blond woman said, “Billy, it’s really nice to meet you. Do you know where Colorado is?”

“Yes Ma’am. It is far out west, where the Rocky Mountains rest, and it’s nice to meet you too.” Little Billy extended his hand to the woman’s husband, “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“The pleasure is all mine, young man.”

“What a perfect, little gentleman,” the lady said. Then, she asked, “So young man, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

Little Billy said, “I’m gonna be a preacher of the Gospel like my great-grandpa.”

The elder William’s eyebrows snapped upward. His eyes widened. “Wherever did you get an idea like that? Who told you your great-grandpa, my father, was a preacher?”

“That nice man…” He spun on the balls of his feet and stood on the tip of his toes, pointing. “Over there.”

William craned his neck searching. “Which man?”

Little Billy glanced at his grandfather, pivoted and pointed again. “That m…” Little Billy searched the crowd across the room.

“Which one, son?” the senior William asked.

“I don’t see him, Grandpa. He must a left.”

William recalled something his father had once shared regarding a passage he recited when describing his conversion to Christ: “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” William smiled at his grandson’s disappointed, pouting countenance and said with as much encouragement as he could offer, “I believe you, Billy.”

The End of Destination Hope – But Hope Springs Eternal.

 

Author’s Note

Destination Hope is not a story about Billy Graham’s great-grandparents. However, I have often wondered what influence his ancestors had in shaping his love for the Lord Jesus Christ. The Billy Graham we, in the Twentieth and Twenty-first century have come to know and love, the Preacher to Presidents, was born November 7, 1918 to William Franklin Graham I (1888–1962) and Morrow Coffey (1892–1981), on a dairy farm near Charlotte, North Carolina, which his paternal grandfather, Crook Graham, bought after serving in the Confederate army. Billy Graham went home to be with Jesus on February 21, 2018. I, for one, miss him, but I do look forward to seeing him in the Kingdom of the Most High.

If the reader recalls from Chapter 9, on May 22, 1865, Secretary Stanton assisted Mrs. Mary Todd Lincoln’s departure from the White House and helped his puppet president become its next resident. Ninety-seven years later, God gave me life. I am grateful the woman who bore me gave me up for adoption. My adoptive dad taught me his admiration for Abraham Lincoln. From his leadership, I dedicated my life’s study to the scriptures and American history. Through the written word, I learned God’s opinion regarding the value of each individual life and His gift of liberty the founders of our nation desired to protect for future American citizens.

Unfortunately, past and present American leaders, like Secretary Stanton, abused their positions of power and established an unelected, unaccountable, administrative state. Bureaucrats are using the unchecked power of government to render our founding documents irrelevant, promote the killing of approximately 60 million innocent babies, indoctrinating our youth to embrace progressive democratic-socialism, and are rapidly destroying our nation from within. Is time running out? Only the Almighty knows. 

I believe God called me to write this story to reestablish a hunger in American Christians to recognize the beauty of the Constitutional Republic God created as His last best hope of liberty on Earth, and to encourage prayer for America’s restoration. God bless you, and thanks for reading.

Please let me know what you think. Should I publish my next project like this?