As another Lame Cherry exclusive in matter anti matter.
The following is an account of the Southern Christian in the American Civil War. It was recorded by his son who was a Confederate Officer in the artillery in the Army of Northern Virginia. Ken Burns would never record a history of Faith in this war, as that part was to be censored. Here though is a record of Preacher Stiles, who saw more of the battles, was on the front more than any other man, because he was going to minister to his flock of Confederate Soldiers.
Before this event, Preacher Stiles had driven a surrey, a small carriage, through three of the Confederate lines, because his boy, who he had left his saddle with had already moved to the front. In a carriage, Preacher Stiles went through the lines and somehow made it past the front, between the Union and Confederate Armies.
He was razzed by his Confederates in them begging the old man for a ride, but he razzed them back as he departed, only to return riding the same horse to move along the battle front.
The following event took place on the Confederate front line, in full view of the Union lines, who obliged Preacher Stiles by firing shells over his head as he prayed.
An incident occurred, on or near the Nine-Mile road, some time before the week of battle opened, which is strongly
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illustrative at once of my father's faith and of the childlike simplicity of the great bulk of our soldiery. Two companies, I think from South Carolina, were supporting a section of our battery in an advanced and somewhat isolated position. About the middle of the afternoon father drove down from Richmond, and after he had distributed his provisions and talked with us a while, proposed to have prayers, which was readily acceded to. Quite a number of men from the neighboring commands gathered, and just as we knelt and my father began his petitions the batteries across the way sent two or three shells entirely too close to our heads to be comfortable-- I presume just by way of determining the object of this concourse.
I confess my faith and devotion were not strong enough to prevent my opening my eyes and glancing around. The scene that met them was almost too much for my reverence and came near being fatal to my decorum. Our Carolina supports, like the rest of us, had knelt and closed their eyes at my father's invocation and, simple-hearted fellows that they were, felt that it would be little less than sacrilege to rise or to open them until the prayer should be completed; and yet their faith was not quite equal to assuring them of God's protection, or at least they felt it would be wise and well to supplement the protection of heaven by the trees and stumps of earth, if they could find them, and so they were actually groping for them with arms wide extended but eyes tight closed, and still on their knees.
I hardly know what might have been the effect upon me of this almost impossibly ludicrous scene had I not glanced toward my father. As was his habit in public prayer, he was standing; his tall, majestic figure erect and his worshipful, reverent face upturned to Heaven. Not a nerve trembled, not a note quavered. In a single sentence he committed us all to God's special keeping while we worshipped; and then, evidently, he did worship and supplicate the Divine Being without the slightest further consciousness of the bursting shells, which in a few moments ceased shrieking above or about us, and our little service closed without further interruption. And then it was beautiful to observe how these simple-hearted boys gazed at my father, as if indeed
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he had been one of the ancient prophets; but I heard some of them say they liked that old preacher mighty well, but they didn't just feel certain whether they wanted him around having prayers so close under the Yankee guns; that he "didn't seem to pay hardly enough attention to them things."
A Southern preacher armed with Faith ministering to his boys, and now a nation faithless, toppling the monuments to best of American Virtue.
agtG
