* * * * *
In the spring of 1861, a captain of the United States navy was living at
Norfolk, Va., his home, the home of his wife's family, and the home of
his closest friends. Excitement ran high, for it was as yet an open
question whether or not the great state of Virginia would join her
sisters farther south and renounce her allegiance to the Union. It was a
time of searching of hearts, and this man of sixty years was brought
face to face with the bitterest moment of his life. He must choose
between his country and his state; between his flag and the love and
respect of his relatives and friends.
In the end, the flag won. It was the flag he had taken his boyish oath
to honor; on more than one occasion, he had seen the haughtiest colors
on the ocean bow with respect before it; he had seen men, writhing in
the agony of death, expend their last breath to defend it. It had
wrapped itself about his heart, and meant more to him than home or
friends or kindred. So the flag won.
On the seventeenth day of April, 1861, Virginia seceded from the Union.
The day following, our gray-haired captain, expressing the opinion that
secession was not the will of the majority of the people, but that the
state had been dragooned out of the Union by a coterie of politicians,
was told that he could no longer live in Norfolk.
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