To live in the hearts and minds of those we leave behind is not to die.

United States Naval Academy
Lucky Bag, 1983

Long Island National Cemetery July 7, 2002

            “O.K., girls, we can go now,” I whispered as I began walking softly and slowly to my car. Upon arriving there, I looked down expecting to see my seven-year-old daughter Catherine and my six-year-old niece Olivia on each of my hips, their appointed station all afternoon at a Long Island Ducks minor league baseball game.

I turned, instead, to see Catherine hugging the tombstone of my sister Marguerite, her face pressed sideways against the marble, her fingers interlaced on the back side—just able to reach all-the-way around. Olivia was kneeling before the stone of my mother, adjacent to her daughter’s, and staring softly at the inscription. The girls sat quietly, occasionally stealing a glance, seeking a cue from each other.

I stood frozen, watching these two girls alternately kneel, sit, and stand before the markers. They switched positions two or three times and exchanged a few quiet words. Catherine was completely engrossed in Marguerite’s marker. I watched her pat, caress, and hug the stone. I watched her trace out the letters delicately with her left index finger, as if reading Braille. I tried to identify the expression on her face and in her heart. It was not really sadness, I decided. It looked more like a longing to know this girl who, the marker confirmed, had died before her fifth birthday. A girl she never knew, a girl I never knew. A girl known to me only through a handful of pictures. My sister, yes, but who had died before I was born.

As I watched my daughter clinging to what was left of her deceased aunt and grandmother, my mind was unconsciously overtaken by uncanny parallels to the story of the stick.

I first saw Red Hawk clinging to his mother’s body as the soldiers pulled her away.

Then as I considered my mother’s gravestone overlooking that of the daughter who predeceased her, my mind’s eye saw Mum and Douglas Turnbull’s stone standing sentinel over Jack’s at All Hallow’s.

Next I remembered the lesson Red Hawk had shared with Robbie in regard to the polar opposites of life. How one emotion or experience cannot be reconciled without the other—hope and despair, good and evil, success and failure, pleasure and pain, ignorance and knowledge. My mind added the ultimate and inescapable pair, life and death.

As I continued to study the girls as they puzzled over the stones, I saw Robbie stepping back from Jack Turnbull’s grave, pondering the twists of fate that called the great pilot to his premature rest.

My mind then had me consider the range of fortune represented, quite literally, beneath the girls’ feet. Below my daughter and niece were a mother who had borne eight children, seven of whom (all boys) continue to live healthy lives, and who herself lived what could only be described as an abundantly fruitful, productive life, and her only daughter, lost at age four after a long illness, never to be known to four of her brothers. Polar opposites yet again.

As I felt Nature in all her glory—the beautiful day, the sun, the grass, the trees, the birds—I thought of the passage from Anne Frank on the day Jimmy Lewis was born. I ruminated on the majesty, grandeur, and multiplicity of Nature. I joined in the reverence with which Red Hawk and all Indians held the Earth—the rhythm of their lives entwined so intimately with the rhythm of the Earth.

What a sight, watching those girls. The lives, the minds, the hearts, the lessons. The hope that filled me was overwhelming. The flood of thoughts, visions, and emotions made me realize all I had learned from the story manifested in the stick and in the lives of its remarkable custodians.

A warm breeze suddenly swept by, shaking me from my trance. A chill penetrated every part of my body. It was too remarkable, too eerie, and too personal to be a coincidence. It was Red Hawk. Miraculously I had just become part of the story myself. My mind raced back through my entire journey with Jim Lewis and Bruce Turnbull. I stood humbly thinking I was not worthy of their goodness in sharing their relationship with Red Hawk with me.

I looked up and thanked Red Hawk for bestowing an even higher honor upon me.

The girls finally came back, and Catherine stunned me by saying, “I don’t want to die, Daddy. But if I do, it’ll be O.K. because I’ll get to be with Marguerite and Nana.”

I stood silent a few seconds longer, reminding myself once again that I was the most fortunate father on Earth. I thought of what I have told Catherine many times: I hope someday you’ll get to love someone as much as Mom and I love you and your little brother. I added an unspoken addendum to that wish: I hope you’ll live long enough to experience something as sublime as I just had.

Finally, I climbed into my car—shaken yet solidified, humbled yet uplifted, scared yet secure, overwhelmed yet eased, emptied yet fulfilled, forever changed yet forever the same. Rededicated. Rededicated to the game of lacrosse, to Nature, to all who have helped and supported me along the way, to my family, friends, and colleagues, to my students, to my wife, and, mostly, to our children.

Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?

Henry David Thoreau
Walden

Lewis visited Robbie a few days after the tenth moon and asked the boy if he would mind going for a walk at the park where they had first met. Robbie eagerly accepted.

As they walked, Lewis began with the usual array of questions concerning school and other general topics, with predictable replies. Then he posed a few questions to gauge what insight Robbie had gained from the stick, so that he might be able to assist him further.

“What do you think the most important thing is that you have learned from the stick at this point, Robbie?” Lewis posed.

“I don’t think I can really say. I’ve learned so much. One thing I can say is that my eyes have been opened to many things I used to take for granted.”

“Like what?”

“Well, just about everything. I’ve learned so much about history. I really like The Story of Mankind that you gave me. Before I met you and Red Hawk, history was just a bunch of boring dates, names, and places in books. Now I realize that those names were real people with real feelings. I’ve learned quite a bit about war.

“I never used to think much about nature, either. I never really looked at the trees, or felt the air or the wind. I do now. The other book you gave me, Silent Spring, really helped me understand the balance of nature.”

They arrived at a stream and sat down on a log. Lewis allowed the discussion to fade so they could listen to the stream. The boy was quite content to sit and listen to the voice of the water as well. After some ten minutes or so, Robbie finally said softly, “This is one of the things I’ve learned. I never understood the subtle sounds of nature. It’s almost as if the stream can talk. Like it’s alive.”

Lewis smiled as Robbie continued.

“And the birds, the animals—even the insects. I never noticed any of that.”

They listened some more.

“Well, Robbie, I’m glad to hear that. You know these big trees and certainly this little river have been here a lot longer than we have. And they will be here much longer after we leave this world. Since I met Red Hawk all those years ago, I have marveled at the character of rivers, oceans, streams, and lakes. They are the sustainers of life and the roads of commerce. I remember being struck in Het Achterhuis by how young Anne had completely acquired sensitivity to nature.”

Lewis stood to continue the walk and asked Robbie, “What do you think you’ve learned about the game?”

“Well, I certainly learned more than I could ever have imagined. It was so cool to see the Cherokee game, and your game against Army, and then this year’s Army-Navy game. That ceremony at Hopkins was really amazing.

“Even though I’ve been playing for a of couple years, I don’t think I could have understood the ancient spirit of the game. You and Red Hawk have been a big help with that part. It’s helped me with my game. I work a lot harder now than I used to. I think I understand what it means to ‘Respect the Game.’”

“What do you think you’ve learned about yourself?”

Robbie thought for a prolonged period. “I think the biggest thing is the obligation I have to others. I never used to think about that. I mean on my team, at home, at school. I think that’s been a constant characteristic of the custodians of the stick. They worked so hard for others. I mean, Red Hawk saved his sister’s life and took care of her. And Red Hawk’s great-great grandfather gave and taught so much to his adopted grandson. Lieutenant Casey helped the Cherokees. Then Chamberlain could have killed Casey but didn’t. He was there for his men despite being shot six times. Jack Turnbull gave his life for others. Doug Turnbull spent his life helping people—including you. And your service to the country and all you have done for me.

“I think the people before me have also been about action. They’ve done things. I think I’ve learned a lot about the importance of doing things. The stick has a pretty overwhelming history. I think I’m gonna have to try harder to live up to my part.”

Lewis smiled inwardly. He’s getting it, he thought. That’s pretty amazing for a boy so young. “You are doing great already, Robbie. I’m glad to hear your insights. How far have you gotten on the carvings?”

“I think I’ve made it through all of the carvings and the inscription.”

“Really? What does the writing say?”

“It says, ‘You must first master yourself…’”

“Were you able to find out about the rest of the saying?”

“Yes. I guess you know the other stick says, ‘before you can lead others.’”

“What do you think the inscription means? The part about mastering yourself.”

“I was hoping you might be able to tell me what you think.”

“Well, like many of the other issues presented by the stick, it took me a little while to really get in touch with this thought. I think what I’ve found after all these years is that it’s important to be prepared to overcome obstacles. At some point in their lives, most people find that the greatest difficulty they’ll face is themselves. They’ll get defeated by some external entity—school, work, personal issues—you name it. But the greatest difficulty is usually maintaining the confidence in yourself to move on and use the setback as an opportunity for growth. I suspect it’s terribly easy for me to say these things and equally difficult for you to believe them. But it’s at those difficult times that you must ‘master yourself.’ Once you have developed the ability to deal with external—and the subsequent internal—crises, then you’ll be in a much better position to positively affect others. It’s all about dealing with adversity, I think. What do you think?”

“That sounds good. Thanks.”

“What else would you like to discuss?”

“How was it having the stick all those years? Did Red Hawk visit you every month the whole time?”

“Well, as you’re already finding out, having the stick for forty-plus years was pretty cool. Just imagine how much you’ve learned since you got it and multiply it by forty. At all of the critical junctures in my life Red Hawk and Mr. Turnbull were there for me. They helped me a lot.

“And, yes, Red Hawk did visit me every month for the whole time. I know that you’ve been keeping a journal. Please keep doing that. I started mine after about four months because I didn’t realize the dreams were real until then. So I went back and reconstructed the early visits. I think I ended up with over 500 stories in there. I read through it every once in a while.”

“Do you think I might be able to look at it sometime?”

“Sure. Remember, I’m here for you just as Mr. Turnbull was for me. My journal has some pretty cool stuff in it. Mr. Turnbull also sent me over a hundred letters. I keep all of it together.”

“Do you miss not having the stick?”

“I miss Red Hawk more than I thought I might—but I’m thrilled that you’re benefiting from his guidance. Mr. Turnbull shared the very same sentiment with me after a year or so.”

They continued the discussion on the way back. When they arrived near their entry point, a soft, warm breeze swept by them. As always Lewis felt it immediately, and Robbie pointed it out a second later. “See, Captain Lewis, I can feel that breeze. Red Hawk has taught me to be sensitive to the wind.” Lewis smiled.

Just then a young hawk landed on the brick wall adjacent to the path about thirty yards ahead. The bird looked directly at Robbie and bobbed its head up and down several times. Robbie diverted his path slightly and approached the bird. Lewis stopped and looked on with a great deal of pride as Robbie responded to the silent beckoning of the hawk.

Robbie felt a rush of excitement as the bird communicated with him. The hawk bobbed its head again. Robbie bent over, extended his hand, and allowed the bird to climb on.

Robbie stared carefully into the bird’s eyes for some time as it looked straight back. Robbie’s gaze took him through the hawk’s eyes and into its soul—indeed, into the very soul of Nature. At that instant, Robbie saw and felt his personal and intimate connection with all living things. This connection was far deeper even than his new-found sensitivity to the streams, winds, and trees. This was a living, breathing, moving, thinking organism not terribly unlike himself. What a magnificent creation, he thought.

Robbie considered the miracle of his own life. He made the mental leap to the preposterous notion of the millions of complex processes occurring at exactly the right time and proper sequence within his own body. The chemical balance. His body temperature. His eyes. His organs and muscles. His breathing. His heartbeat. The flow of blood through his veins. For the first time, he became fully conscious of everything within himself. Robbie’s life had changed yet again.

After a few minutes of silent exchanges, Robbie offered the hawk the telepathic reply: Our pleasure. He then sent the bird aloft into another soft, warm breeze which had just materialized.

“That was the same bird we met here last year,” Robbie proclaimed confidently to Lewis as the bird kited up into the sky.

“How do you know?” asked the captain.

“She thanked us.”

Memory grips the past; hope grips the future.

Scott Russell Sanders
Hunting for Hope

            Red Hawk again appeared on the next full moon, the tenth in a row.

            “Hi, Robbie. How have you been doing?”

            “Great. I went to the Army-Navy game a few days ago. Captain Lewis took my family and me on a tour and then to the game. It was awesome. Navy won!”

            Red Hawk nodded, knowing the story already. “Did you want to go anywhere specific this time or ask any questions?”

            “Well, I think we’ve gotten back to the origin of the stick, haven’t we?” Robbie asked.

            “Yes, we have. There’s certainly a lot more to learn about each of the custodians, but perhaps we could just discuss a little bit about where this stick has taken us so far.”

            “Sure.”

            Red Hawk began, “Well, for each of the previous custodians, I’ve been fortunate to share with them some piece of the story of the stick in the first ten moons. Actually, I attempted to guide them for the most part to the scenes and information I thought would be most useful for their growth as custodian of the stick. It was almost as though they were in a womb for those ten moons, exactly as you and I were in our mothers’ wombs, being nourished by their bodies and the Great Spirit. Then at birth, we were all free to pursue our own forms of knowledge through our own experiences.

            “And so it is now for you. I hope that you’ve grown in this ‘womb’ of visits. You know the story of the stick. Now it’s time to spread your wings, explore on your own, strive to reach your full potential, discover the great mysteries of life, learn the ways of the world, and, perhaps, find your place in it.

            “You might recall that the day Captain Lewis presented you with my grandfather’s stick, he and your family spared the life of that fledgling which had fallen from a tree.”

            Robbie’s heart warmed when he realized that Red Hawk was familiar with that event and might even have had some hand in it.

            Red Hawk continued, “Perhaps it was not a coincidence that for you the first lesson of the stick was one of life. From there you’ve seen and learned of some of the great tragedies and horrors known to mankind. You’ve seen death, war, hate, prejudice, injustice. You saw the death of a great hero, Jack Turnbull. And you witnessed his mother, Mum Turnbull, receive the news that her son had died, perhaps the greatest burden that any person must bear.

            “You saw the carnage at Gettysburg. You saw the Trail of Tears. You’ve experienced the cruelty of mankind manifested in those two compelling books, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and Het Achterhuis. But you have also seen acts of honor, mercy, compassion, empathy, and dignity. Remember the heroic dignity of Mrs. Turnbull after Jack’s death. You saw the noble actions of Colonel Casey and Colonel Chamberlain at Little Round Top.

            “Remember the empathy that Casey showed for the Cherokee, particularly for my sister and me. You saw my great-grandfather release his adopted son to pursue his life with his people. You saw and felt the passion put into the construction of your stick by the Iroquois chief. So many of life’s greatest lessons are held in this stick and through the people who have lived noble—yet very ordinary—lives.

            “In my discussions with each of the custodians over these one-hundred-and-sixty years, I think that we’ve all agreed that a great place from which to start our relationship is with the gift of life. And so today, I hope that with this insight into this stick, you might begin your life anew—with a more sensitive appreciation of how truly precious and precarious each of our lives is. From there, I hope that you’ll find, like the other custodians, what you want to find in your own life and that you may then find a way to use that insight to help others, much as Lieutenant Casey helped me. You see, beginning with my great-great grandfather and then Casey and the others, this stick has been a tribute to the goodness in people, not the evil.

            “Perhaps one of the great lessons in the lives of these men is that to experience the full range of human emotion, one must endure a great array of experiences, both good and bad.

            “In order to understand and fully appreciate joy, you must know pain. To know goodness, you must know evil. To know light, you must know darkness. And so it is only through these inextricable opposites, these paradoxes that we’re able to experience the entire spectrum of what life has to offer. There’s so much to learn from each of the custodians.

            “So now you’ve seen the past. You’re living the present. There are no guarantees for what the future holds. We can only hope. But to know the past and the present is to provide as sound a footing as possible for the trials of the future. I hope the lessons you’ve learned so far, as well as the many still ahead, will give you a better chance to conquer adversity, master yourself, and make a positive difference in the world.

            “I believe this is a stick of life. It is a stick of honor. It is a stick of respect. Above all, though, I think the true spirit of this stick is one of hope.

            “The men who have had it before you have made it such. Each of the men was forced to cling to hope while they battled their own frailties, fears, self-doubt, frustration, and disappointments. They learned valuable lessons of leadership and courage in internal and external crucibles. Before they could have an impact on others they were forced to confront themselves. Each has left a legacy of honor, goodness, and leadership to you and me. You will get to add your own signature, your own carving on the stick, to its history as you see fit.

            “We both have a great deal more to learn about each other, the custodians of this stick, and the great mysteries of our lives.”

            With that Red Hawk paused and slowly turned away. Robbie stood silent. On his first step, Red Hawk turned his head back to Robbie and said softly, “My grandfather has always stayed with me when I have needed him. I will stay with you. It is my duty. I owe it not only to him but also to many other people.

            “Happy Birthday, Robbie.”

            Robbie stood briefly confused, thinking that it was not his birthday. Then as Red Hawk stepped away, he realized that it was.

I never return to this place without my heart thumping with a sense of history. I sense the great warriors that have gone before us behind every tree and pillar and feel a renewed obligation to be worthy of their company.

Vice Admiral James Bond Stockdale
U.S. Naval Academy Class of ‘47
Former Prisoner of War

            Lewis arrived an hour early for his meeting with Robbie and his family at Navy-Marine Corps Memorial Stadium. The time allowed him to walk the stadium at his own pace. He was well beyond the need to relive his glory days on that field. He was more interested now in the stadium itself, the names of the battles emblazoned on the facades, the many plaques citing memorials to fallen shipmates and classmates, and the dedication plaque itself:

DEDICATION

     THIS STADIUM IS DEDICATED TO THOSE WHO HAVE SERVED AND WILL SERVE AS UPHOLDERS OF THE TRADITIONS AND RENOWN OF THE NAVY AND MARINE CORPS OF THE UNITED STATES. MAY IT BE A PERPETUAL REMINDER THAT THE NAVY AND MARINE CORPS ARE ORGANIZATIONS OF MEN TRAINED TO LIVE NOBLY AND SERVE COURAGEOUSLY: IN PEACE, CHAMPIONS OF OUR INTEGRITY: IN WAR, DEFENDERS OF OUR FREEDOM.

            As he walked, Lewis pondered the hundreds of athletes who had competed on that field and the many that had been lost in combat. Few days went by when he didn’t think of his fallen comrades.

Robbie and his family arrived at 1:15.

“Well, are we all ready?” Lewis asked.

“We can’t wait,” replied Mrs. Jones.

“O.K. I know that in the last few months all of you, especially Robbie, have learned a great deal about the history of the game. I thought it would be good to get in touch with the Army-Navy game itself. Tonight is the 76th meeting in the storied rivalry. There is simply no bigger game for either of these two teams. It is going to be a treat, I’m sure. But before the game, I’d like to take you on a special tour. I’ll explain as we go.”

“Sounds great,” agreed John Jones.

“Since we’re already here, why don’t we start with the stadium?” Lewis proposed rhetorically. “Some people have called this facility a memorial that doubles as a stadium. I like to think of it that way myself. There are over 400 plaques placed all around this stadium and about 8,000 seats offered as tributes to people or military units. And you can see the battles commemorated on the facades.” He walked the family around the same loop he had just completed, offering details of the key points, the names of and a few facts about the battles.

“Would you mind taking a short ride?” Lewis asked the family.

“Not at all. Please,” said Mrs. Jones.

They drove from the stadium through downtown Annapolis onto the grounds of the academy and to the Lacrosse Office in MacDonough Hall. Coach Richie Meade was expecting their arrival.

“Coach, thanks for having us. Let me introduce Robbie, his sister Catherine, and their parents, John and Mary Jones.”

Coach Meade then introduced the family to his staff and a long-time supporter of the program, the Grand Dame of Navy Lacrosse, M.G. Buchanan who had happened by to wish the coach good luck. “It’s great having you all here. Our players are very excited about the game tonight. I hope you are, too. I understand that Captain Lewis is going to escort you on a special tour this afternoon. I wish I could go with you, but we still need to finalize some things for the game. Where are you going?”

Lewis cut in on the answer, “I’m going to surprise them.”

“Well, I’m sure you know how important Captain Lewis has been to the Naval Academy and to Navy Lacrosse.”

Coach Meade pulled a framed magazine article off his wall and handed it to Robbie. It was an autographed picture of Lewis from a 1966 copy of the Baltimore Sun Magazine. The article was entitled, “The Greatest Lacrosse Man Ever.” Coach Meade pointed out some of the other pictures on his wall. He was extremely proud of the program and took every opportunity to share his pride.

“These are our three players who have played for the United States team. He pointed to Jeff Long, Class of ’77, Glen Miles ’86, and Andy Ross ’97. We are very proud of all of them. While members of the USA team, each won the World Championship. I think each of these guys would tell you how great it was to play for Navy. But to have the additional honor of playing for their country was something they’ll never forget.” The coach pointed to another picture of two of his players from the Class of 2000 at the Graduation Week Prizes and Awards Ceremony.

“This is also one of my favorite pictures, Robbie. These two young men had outstanding careers here at Navy, but it wasn’t easy for either of them. This is Jon Brianas, who had to battle through cancer while he was here. He received the Vice Admiral Edward C. Waller Lacrosse Award, given annually to the ‘midshipman who has contributed most to the spirit, morale, and well-being of the lacrosse team.’ And this is Mickey Jarboe holding the Naval Academy Athletic Association Sword, awarded to ‘the most outstanding athlete of his class.’ Mickey’s story is amazing also—since he didn’t even start for his high school team. When he graduated from here, he had been selected as the outstanding goalie in the country twice! These guys are what Navy Lacrosse is all about. We are very proud of them. I hope you’ll see what I mean tonight.”

Coach Meade shared more history with the family, citing seventeen National Championships, 331 All-Americas, and several Hall-of-Fame players and coaches during the program’s ninety years. Lewis thanked Coach Meade for the visit. Meade presented Robbie and Catherine copies of the team’s program and a ball autographed by all of his players and Lewis.

From MacDonough Hall the group took a short walk to Lejeune Hall, home of Navy’s Olympic-sized swimming pool as well as the Navy Athletic Hall-of-Fame. Lewis walked his guests slowly past an assortment of memorabilia, including a football from the 1963 Cotton Bowl.

Lewis grudgingly obliged a request to point out items that honored him, so he waved at a couple of pictures, then the huge plaque recording the recipients of the Naval Academy Athletic Association Sword. Lewis’s name was listed in the Class of ’66, immediately below Heisman Trophy winner and NFL Hall-of-Famer Roger Staubach for the Class of ’65, Tom Lynch ’64, who had recently completed a tour as Superintendent, and the late Donald C. McLaughlin ’63, who had been a “firstie” (senior) when Lewis was a plebe, and who had died in Vietnam. The recipient for the Class of ’61 was Navy’s other Heisman Trophy recipient, Joe Bellino. Understanding the stature of Bellino and Staubach Mr. Jones was the most impressed of the group. The family scanned the plaque beginning with the honoree of 1893, C.S. Bookwater of football and crew, all the way to the Class of 2000, Mickey Jarboe.

Lewis hurried the group past his Hall-of-Fame plaque. This visit wasn’t about him. The true purpose was to show his guests the plaque dedicated to his late coach:

WILLIS P. (Bildy) BILDERBACK

NAVY LACROSSE COACH

1959-1972

Record 117-18-1

NINE NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIPS 1960-67, 70

EIGHT CONSECUTIVE (1960-1967)

FIVE UNDEFEATED SEASONS 1960, 62, 64, 65, 66

92 ALL-AMERICAS

LACROSSE COACH OF THE YEAR 1960

MEMBER LACROSSE HALL OF FAME

BILDY SAID, “THE GREATEST EXPERIENCE OF MY LIFE HAS BEEN COACHING MIDSHIPMEN.”

BILDY, WE ARE THE FORTUNATE ONES. WE CAN’T THANK YOU ENOUGH FOR BEING OUR COACH AND FRIEND. YOU WERE AN EXCEPTIONAL TACTICIAN, TEACHER, AND MOTIVATOR. YOU GAVE US SO MUCH AND INSTILLED IN US A SPECIAL LOVE FOR THE GAME. YOU MADE US WINNERS ON THE FIELD AND IN LIFE, AND MADE US DIG DEEP WITHIN OURSELVES TO DO OUR BEST. WE ADMIRED YOU, WE RESPECTED YOU AND WE LOVED YOU.

THE TEAM

DONATED BY THE NAVAL ACADEMY ATHLETIC ASSOCIATION

Lewis allowed the family to read the inscription on the plaque. “He was a great coach. I think at the time we all knew it—but it means so much more to us now.”

Next Lewis drove the family to the State of Maryland World War II Memorial located just across the Severn River from the Yard. Upon arriving at the Memorial, Lewis allowed the family a few minutes to peruse the magnificent circular formation of granite and marble. The flags of Maryland and the United States hung heavily from their supports, about thirty feet above the central icon. The Memorial was offered as a tribute to the natives of Maryland who lost their lives while serving in the United States Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Coast Guard, and Army Air Corps of World War II.

Lewis stood in front of the inscription of Jack Turnbull’s name carved into the black granite. In the polished rock he could see his own reflection. Lewis stared at his image superimposed on Jack’s name and pondered what his life would have been like without the stick. It was too daunting a thought to elicit a coherent response. Lewis almost unconsciously began tracing the inscription of Jack’s name. His guests slowly gathered and simply stared at the name. No words were necessary.

The next stop was in nearby Davidsonville and All Hallows’ Episcopal Church. Lewis drove past the sign announcing the establishment of the church in 1692 and proceeded up a slight incline on a gravel road. They were greeted by a timid and solitary rabbit who ambled away as they opened the car doors. All of them saw the cemetery located adjacent to and behind the beautiful old brick building. Lewis walked the family around the side of the church to the graveyard.

“This is where Jack Turnbull and his parents are buried,” Lewis said respectfully. He escorted the group to the general area and allowed them to review the stones without further comment, letting the tranquility of the yard to say what needed to be said. Occasional birds added their voices to the gathering.

As Robbie scanned the graveyard, his eyes were captured by many large, ornate stones. He automatically surveyed those, the stones having achieved their purpose of gathering attention, but he scanned the names to no avail. Then he noticed a small American flag hanging limply on its stick, placed next to a gravestone. It was a rather nondescript, baseless stone, about two feet high, with a cross inscribed above the name. The stone was grayed by time and partially covered with moss on the top. He read the inscription:

JOHN

IGLEHART

TURNBULL

MARYLAND

LIEUTENANT COLONEL AIR CORPS

WORLD WAR II

JUNE 30, 1910

OCTOBER 18, 1944

            Robbie felt a chill as he realized that the body of Jack Turnbull was located only several feet below his own. He gently stepped back not to offend the great pilot. His family had seen Robbie freeze in his tracks and, taking the cue, joined him.

“A group of veterans comes by on several occasions a year and places these flags on the graves of our countrymen lost in battle.” Lewis offered just above a whisper. They looked around the rest of the cemetery and noticed only a few other flags among hundreds of other stones.

They also saw the markers of Jack’s grandparents adjacent to his and then the dual stone of his parents just beyond those. Robbie immediately connected with “Mum” as he studied her stone:

TURNBULL

DOUGLAS CLAYLAND     ELIZABETH B. IGLEHART

JULY 23, 1874                        APRIL 12, 1875

MARCH 1, 1941                    JULY 13, 1957

THEIR FAITH, THEIR STRENGTH

            The boy’s mind rewound to the scene Red Hawk had provided when Mum received the news of Jack’s death and then the scene of her presenting the first Turnbull Award to Stewart McLean.

After allowing another fifteen or twenty minutes for the family to take in the sights and sounds of the cemetery, Lewis quietly led his group back to the car for the continuation of the day. Lewis drove his guests back to Annapolis for an early dinner at the Wharf and fielded more questions as they ate.

“I’d like to get to the game a little early if we can. There is someone I’d like you to meet.”

Again, Lewis hit his target time exactly and found Tommy Adams at a pre-game reception in his honor at the stadium pavilion. Upon sighting Lewis, Tommy broke off his conversation and came to greet him. The old friends embraced. “Thanks for coming, Jim.”

“Glad I could make it. Let me introduce you to some special guests. This is Robbie and his family. John, Mary, and Catherine Jones.”

Tommy and his wife Joyce greeted them warmly and asked how they knew Captain Lewis.

Lewis said simply, “We’ve become friends over the last few months through, let’s just say, a mutual friend named Red Hawk.”

Tommy’s face beamed, and he smiled at Lewis. He knew. He knew that Robbie was now the custodian of the special stick. Tommy thought it would be useful for Robbie to hear the unique circumstances of how Captain Lewis would select his sticks during the years he played at Navy.

“Robbie, do you know how good Captain Lewis was when he was here? Well, when our yearly shipments of five hundred sticks came in, Coach Bilderback instructed me to call Jim first and have him select ten sticks for the upcoming season. Then I would call the seniors. I don’t think the others guys knew that Jim got first crack. I suppose that even if they did, they didn’t mind much. Jim would spend hours looking for a stick that matched his special stick—the one Mr. Turnbull had given him. He never was able to find one quite like it, but he picked out the ten best. The deal I struck with Jim for letting him choose first was that as he pondered his selections, he would let me study his special stick. I became intimately attuned to the marvelous balance and harmony of the wood, gut, and leather. For decades I always used the characteristics of that stick as the basis for how I strung and balanced Navy lacrosse sticks. It was the seed from which all of the other sticks grew. None of the other guys knew about that, either—or even Coach Bilderback—just Jim and me.”

“Robbie,” Lewis said, “Tommy is being honored at half-time tonight for his service to the Naval Academy. You see, he has been the lacrosse team’s equipment manager for forty years. Tommy is the single greatest expert on lacrosse sticks in the world today. We call him the Stick Doctor. Many of the innovations that have come about over the years in regard to equipment improvement began with Tommy. I can’t tell you how much he’s meant to me personally when I was playing and to the hundreds of other midshipmen over the years.”

It was an uncommonly warm evening in Annapolis as play began. Lewis let the play speak for itself. Robbie was struck by the pace, intensity, and physicality of the game. Each ground ball, each one-on-one, was hotly contested.

Navy took a 7-3 lead into half-time.

Shortly after the teams went to their locker rooms, Director of Athletics Jack Lengyel presided over a group heading to the center of the field. With Lengyel were Mike Gottleib ’70, Carl Tamulevich ’68, currently Assistant Director of Athletics and a National Lacrosse Hall-of-Famer, and Tommy.

A public address announcer regaled the crowd of over 6,000 with Tommy’s many achievements during his forty years. After the remarks, the announcer then directed attention to Mike Gottleib, general manager of the “Navy Old Goats”—a team of former Navy players who compete annually in the Vail Shootout—and graphic designer to present Tommy with an original watercolor depicting his tenure. Tommy’s face graced the main body of the work, and in each corner stood vignettes of key points; Jim Lewis, the Old Goats, Willis Bilderback, and Jeff Long.

Navy played another solid half, earning a 10-4 victory and their fourth straight win over Army, a remarkable achievement, only performed a handful of times in the history of the 80-year rivalry. All-America Adam Borcz scored four goals that night, ending his career as the all-time leading scorer among Navy midfielders.

“Robbie, you know when we talk about getting on the wall and working on your skills? I sat quietly in the bleachers last night and watched Adam take 100 shots with both hands after practice before he left. Coach Meade tells me that he does it all the time. Also with all of the work he’s put into lacrosse he’s not allowed his grades to slip. He’s been selected for the Navy’s nuclear power program, which requires strong academic work. It’s no surprise that he has achieved what he has. He’s a special player.”

Lewis brought the family down to the field to congratulate the staff, players, and Tommy, and to meet his former teammate, Carl Tamulevich. Robbie noted the elation on the faces of the Navy players and the utter dejection of their Army counterparts—just like the 1964 game. It hadn’t changed much, he thought.

“So, what did you think of the day, Robbie?” Tommy asked.

“Best day of my life,” Robbie beamed.

I count him braver who overcomes his desires than him who conquers his enemies; for the hardest victory is over self.

 Aristotle

            Having finally deduced the timing of the cycle, at the next full moon Robbie was expecting Red Hawk’s visit.

“Hi, Red Hawk. I was hoping to see you tonight.”

            “Really? Why tonight?”

            “Well, I think I figured out when you’ve been visiting me. Is it during the full moon of each month?”

            “Yes, it is. I’m glad you were able to calculate the timing. What would you like to learn tonight?”

            “Well, you seem to have shown me about all of the custodians, and you mentioned that your grandfather gave you the stick. Was he the only other custodian? Were there others? Where did he get it?”

            “Well, I guess this is as good a time as any to share with you the story of my grandfather. He didn’t share this story with me until he was about to die.

            “You’ve noticed that this stick of yours is really an Iroquois stick. And you also know quite well by now that my grandfather was a Cherokee.”

            Robbie nodded that he understood.

            “Well, the story wasn’t quite that simple. For generations before the birth of my grandfather, the Cherokee and Iroquois intermittently raided each other’s villages, killing, robbing, and kidnapping. No one is quite sure how long this went on or which side could claim more success. It’s certain, though, that these skirmishes went on for many generations and with great loss and misery to both sides. Since both of our tribes share many similarities in language, it is probable that ages ago we were from the same people. For some reason, perhaps just natural migration of small factions, the tribes gradually became two distinct groups and found themselves fighting just as any other rival tribes might.”

            Robbie listened intently.

            “When my grandfather was just an infant, his father was murdered in one of those raids, and he was abducted by the Iroquois. When he was brought back to the Iroquois homeland, he was given to a man whose wife and son had been killed not two years before in a similar raid initiated by the Cherokee. The man’s name was Rising Sun, and he had been a powerful and highly respected warrior in his clan. In the attack he was badly injured and left for dead. When he finally regained consciousness and realized he had allowed his wife and son to be killed, he fell into a severe depression.

            “When the Iroquois raiding party returned with the young boy, Running Water, who became my grandfather, Rising Sun took him in as his own son. Over some period of time Rising Sun broke free of his melancholy and, though never completely recovering from his loss, began to consider the captured boy his Iroquois son. All the while the boy’s adopted grandfather treated the boy in like fashion, loving and teaching him like his own grandson.

            “Running Water never knew of his true birth. When he was very young, he recalled that he questioned his father two or three times concerning the loss of his mother. In each case, Rising Sun responded truthfully enough, at least in regard to his wife: ‘She was killed in a raid by the Cave People.’ Then, Running Water told me, his father would weep silently for several minutes, unable to discuss the situation any further. At his young age Running Water did not know the shame that Rising Sun carried with him, not to mention the actual loss of the two most important people in his life. After questioning a few times and receiving the same dreary reply, Running Water stopped asking the question, to spare his father more pain and tears.”

            Robbie continued to absorb every word.

            “It was not until Running Water was about fourteen years of age that a mean-spirited relative mentioned to him the true origin of his birth. Running Water felt a wave of nausea pass through his body, and he vomited violently and writhed on the ground. He felt as though his whole life, his whole identity, had been stripped from him.

            “‘This can’t be true! My father has loved me my whole life. How could I be of another tribe?’ Running Water screamed to himself.

            “When he gathered enough strength to get back to his feet, he returned to his home and asked his father if this story was true. His father admitted that it was and shared what information he could with Running Water.

            “‘It is true, my son. You are one of the Cave People. What I have been telling you all these years about my wife, though I regret she is not your mother, has been true. She was killed along with our only son when the marauders from the south attacked us twelve years ago.

            “‘A short time later a skirmish party from our tribe arranged a retaliatory attack. I was unable to participate because I was still recovering from my severe wounds. When the party returned, they presented you to me to replace my son. From the beginning I treated you like my own blood. Ever since, you have been everything that a father could ask for in a son. For keeping your true birth from you for my own selfish reasons I will be forever scorned by the Great Spirit.’”

            Red Hawk continued, “My grandfather, though feeling like his heart had been shattered, understood some of his father’s motives and was beginning to try to find a way to forgive him. As a boy of fourteen, Running Water was well aware of the skirmishes that had occurred between the Iroquois and the Cherokee, several other peripheral tribes, and the encroaching white settlers. His greatest confusion was the nature of his father’s love. Over the years he had loved Running Water so completely that he suddenly began to marvel that Rising Sun was capable of such true affection in the wake of such a loss. My grandfather also thought long and hard about the role of his own people in this matter. Neither side seemed completely in the right.

            “After a few weeks of soul-searching, Running Water knew deep in his heart that he must return to his people and asked Rising Sun if he might consider letting him go. Rising Sun told him, ‘I have already deprived you of your childhood, my son. I will suffer the wrath of the Great Spirit for having done so. How can I keep you here one minute longer? You must return to your people. With tomorrow’s sun you will embark on your journey. Let us prepare.’

            “Rising Sun had no doubt that all he had taught his adopted son would serve him well in his trek. He was a strong, resourceful young man. And so, the next morning, the boy left his village with a single bag over his shoulder. His father bade the boy good-bye. Rising Sun wept for days, having suffered the curse of losing a second son.”

            Robbie continued to listen silently.

            “A few days later, Running Water wandered into a village of his people. He identified himself and asked for his family. The woman he said this to jumped for joy and immediately called for Beautiful Way.

            “Beautiful Way came running in response to the scream. ‘This is Running Water. He has returned from the dead!’ said the woman. Running Water’s mother fell to her knees and stared at him from head to toe. She slowly stood and stared deeply into his eyes, confirming the boy as her long-dead son. She wailed in joy, fell again, and hugged his knees.

            “When his mother held him Running Water felt an incredible wave of love—and confusion. It took Running Water some time to integrate into his tribe. Later he married a woman of the Bear Clan.”

            Robbie hadn’t suspected any of this history, for Red Hawk had not hinted at such an incredible and improbable childhood for Running Water.

            “So,” Red Hawk continued, “Now to the stick.”

            Robbie had completely forgotten about his original question.

            Red Hawk took Robbie to see for himself. An old Iroquois chief was sitting on a tree stump, plying a hickory branch.

            “Who’s that?” Robbie whispered.

            “That’s my grandfather’s adopted grandfather, Mountain Snow. He’s carving the stick that you have right now.”

            Robbie stared in awe. A tingling feeling much stronger even than the one he had felt when Captain Lewis initially handed him the stick shot through his body, causing him to become light-headed.

            The Indian boy pointed a few yards to the right, and Robbie saw the stick hanging from a stand constructed of five large branches, two on each end tied to form a large “V” on the bottom and a small “V” at the top, supporting the other, longer, stick laid perpendicularly between them. The stick was draped over one side with another branch slipped through its webbing to hold its position on the rack.

            Robbie asked if they could go and look at the stick on the rack and Red Hawk immediately led him there.

            “This is the one which has been passed down through my sister’s descendants. That one,” Red Hawk turned his eyes to his great-great-grandfather’s hands, “is the one I presented to Lieutenant Casey and has been passed down to you.”

            Red Hawk and Robbie stood and watched the old man as he worked tirelessly and meticulously on making the pair of sticks perfect. Nothing less would do for his eight-year-old grandson. The old man spent several hours carving a scene of a woman with arms extended on one shaft and a baby with arms reaching back to his mother on the other.

            “My grandfather received these sticks a few weeks after this, on his eighth birthday. He asked his grandfather about the carvings. Mountain Snow simply said that the picture was of his daughter reaching for her son during the raid in which she was killed.”

            Robbie was shaken to realize the gruesome meaning of the unknown carving on his stick.

            “When I received the sticks, they meant a great deal to me. For any young man in our tribe, these sticks symbolized the first steps toward manhood. My grandfather presented these sticks to me on my eighth birthday as well. As soon as I touched the sticks I could immediately feel the power and spirit of the warrior in my great-great-grandfather and my grandfather. When I was a boy stickball was a critical part of my life in each of my tribes. It was a way for us to be accepted as men into our tribe. When we were still too young to go into battle with our older brothers and fathers, it substituted as a means to show our strength, skill, and courage, the same traits that would make us successful in defense of our tribe. When we became older, we still played with incredible passion, mostly to invite the favor of our gods, to strengthen our boys, to earn respect for our clans in contests with others, and to continue to parade our physical courage.”

            “Did your grandfather say anything to you when he gave you the sticks?”

            “We talked for a while when he presented the sticks to me. He carved the picture of the hawk—for my name—on the shaft while we talked. He explained that the game would teach me valuable lessons in preparation for manhood. He said above all things that I must be prepared to defend the tribe, that I must develop the skills, strength, and courage to do so. He then said, and I remember this exactly, ‘You must first master yourself…before you can lead others.’ In fact, he carved that saying onto my sticks, half on one, half on the other. I remember him telling me that when his grandfather gave him the sticks that he was a bit surprised to be given two. Most boys were given only one. Looking back later he said that his grandfather probably gave him two because he was a member of two tribes and because the Cherokee played with two sticks. His grandfather obviously didn’t tell him those reasons at the time, but he certainly was mindful of the situation and crafted them accordingly. But beyond what he said to me that day, he passed his spirit to me through the stick. I learned more every day. I could always feel my grandfather’s spirit in the stick.”

            Robbie remembered the writing around the head of the stick. “So that is what it says on the top of my—I mean your—stick?”

            “Yes, and it is your stick. It was written by my grandfather in our native Cherokee language. A few years earlier a man of our tribe named Sequoia had devised our writing system, the first such system among Native Americans. My grandfather immediately sought to learn the writing and teach it to me. The stick that you have has the first part of the saying. It says ‘You must first master yourself.’ The other part of the saying, ‘before you can lead others,’ is completed on the other stick, and my sister has passed that down to her descendants.”

            Robbie could hardly believe all of this and was suddenly intrigued by the notion that the other stick might be in the hands of someone else who might be benefiting from it as he was.

            Red Hawk told Robbie that he would come visit him again and bade farewell.

“Red Hawk showed me an unbelievable story. There’s another stick!” Robbie proudly proclaimed to his parents in the morning.

“Really? How is that?” asked his mother.

“There were originally two—which Red Hawk got as a set. You know the writing on mine? It’s only part of a saying that is finished on the other stick! It says, ‘You must first master yourself’ Red Hawk said that the other one was passed down through his sister. It says, ‘before you can lead others.’”

“That’s a great saying. It would be pretty amazing if we could find out about the other one,” said his dad.

Robbie headed off to school with yet another new wave of energy.

John and Mary Jones looked at each other in disbelief once again. “This whole thing is really incredible, Mary. I’m still having a hard time believing that all of this is possible and that we’re involved in it. How did it happen to us?”

The whole scene since I have been in this country has been nothing but a heartrending one, and such a one as I would be glad to get rid of as soon as the circumstances will permit.

General John Wool, Commanding Officer,
US Army Forces in Charge of Cherokee Removal,
To the Honorable Lewis Cass, Secretary of War
September 10, 1836

Robbie was so appalled by the events of the previous night’s visit that he decided to research the Trail of Tears in earnest. He began with his history teacher that morning.

“Good morning, Robbie,” welcomed Ms. Hastings, a warm, engaging 27-year-old fifth-year teacher.

“Good morning,” Robbie replied somewhat drearily.

Ms. Hastings immediately picked up on Robbie’s unusual demeanor.

“Is everything O.K., Robbie?”

“Yes. Well, maybe. Do you know anything about the Trail of Tears—the Cherokee removal?”

A surprised Ms. Hastings replied, “I’ve read a fair amount about that event, Robbie. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I found out about some of it recently and I really hadn’t known anything about it, that’s all. I’m just curious.”

“We don’t really cover it in this course, but I’d be glad to share what I can with you.”

Just before the bell Robbie’s classmates filed in. As the bell sounded to begin class, Ms. Hastings asked Robbie, “Why don’t you come by on your free period and we’ll talk about it?”

“O.K., but I don’t want to bother you with it.”

“No problem—just come by and let’s see what we can cover.”

In preparation for Robbie’s questions, Ms. Hastings pulled a couple of her references. She had studied the Trail of Tears during her undergraduate work, and she located the topic in her well-organized and labeled notebooks. She scanned them quickly. Her bookshelf was full of dozens and dozens of history books. When Robbie arrived, Ms. Hastings could still see the boy’s anguish.

“Would you like to share with me why this topic has suddenly become so important, Robbie?”

“I’d rather not, but I would like to hear what you think about it.”

“How much do you know?”

“Not much. I know that it was the forced removal of the Cherokee Nation to the west. And it happened around 1838 and 1839. That’s really it.”

Ms. Hastings was concerned about Robbie’s sudden interest, but began, “O.K., well, the Trail of Tears, as it has come to be known by most historians, or more correctly, ‘The Trail Where They Wept,’ was a rather dark chapter in the history of the United States. While there have certainly been a number of others, many people feel this is among the very worst.

“This is a pretty long and complicated story, Robbie. But the key items, I think, are relatively simple to understand. The core issue was that the American settlers wanted the Cherokee land. Our history is obviously full of such encroachments, beginning with Columbus, and then the Plymouth Colony, through the Cherokee, the wars on the Great Plains, and culminating, for all practical purposes, with the Battle at Wounded Knee. These tensions have always been a part of humankind, and they have certainly been prevalent in the history of the Americas.

“Remember that the Louisiana Purchase was executed in 1803 and the Corps of Discovery—the Lewis and Clark Expedition—mapped out what the country had actually bought, returning in 1806. There was enormous interest in the West. And so, over a period of time, the westward push of the white settlers was bound to create more and more problems. In order to ease both existing and future frictions, the United States government began to arrange a series of treaties with the Cherokee which, on the surface, were to benefit both sides. In exchange for land cessions, the government paid the natives certain monetary amounts. Of course, we have seen that these transactions were manipulative and over the long term sure to go in the favor of the government. The lands of the Cherokee—and the Creeks, Choctaws, and others—kept shrinking and shrinking.

“As you can imagine, these land cessions caused strife among the leaders of the tribes. Some of the old guard were insistent that they not surrender any lands under any circumstances. The more pragmatic leaders realized that the white settlers were going to come anyway, so they attempted to get some concessions in return. They also hoped that a more clearly defined territory in which the whites could migrate would benefit both sides. But as quickly as they were drawn the new territorial lines were violated by the whites. And so factions began to splinter off among the groups of native leaders, each claiming to represent the interests of the entire nation. Then, of course, the U.S. government would negotiate with the group that offered the least resistance. It’s not really hard to understand. I guess it’s just human nature. How are you doing so far, Robbie?”

Despite his outward disposition, Robbie replied softly, “Fine.”

“Most conventional history books don’t treat the Indian Wars with the rigor and objectivity the subject merits—at least in my opinion. In addition to the actual conflicts, skirmishes, battles, and wars with the Indians, the presence of the whites caused them to suffer in many other ways. I’ve already mentioned the bogus treaties. But most people don’t realize how badly the diseases brought by the Europeans ravaged the natives. Hundreds of thousands of natives died from smallpox alone.

“I think the other aspect so difficult to follow and understand was the nature of the alliances formed among the settlers, different countries, the United States government, and various tribes. These alliances frequently shifted or changed altogether, often pitting former allies against each other.

“One particular example is relevant to this painful story. You see, before Andrew Jackson became president he was a famous army general who made his name by—you guessed it—fighting Indians. One battle in particular was at Horseshoe Bend, on the Tallapoosa River in Alabama, on March 27, 1814. Jackson’s mission was to defeat the Creeks there. Well, in order to gain as much advantage on the Creeks as possible, Jackson enlisted the services of about 500 Cherokee—about one-quarter of his total force.”

Robbie was amazed to hear this fact.

“And so they defeated the Creek—actually they massacred them—and Jackson became a hero. There are several accounts of the battle that suggest Jackson was saved at least once by a Cherokee warrior and that due to their battle assignments the Cherokee losses were in disproportion to those of the white soldiers.

“One of the reasons this removal is so tragic is that many of the Cherokee who assisted Jackson felt that he would not betray the loyalty they had rendered to him. The warriors who fought for Jackson as young men were now tribal elders and leaders. They were convinced that Jackson would not have won that battle—or perhaps even survived—without their participation and so, as president, he would return the favor by not signing their eviction order. There was no way he could turn his back on them—but they were wrong.

“Over many years negotiations took place between the government and various delegations of Cherokee. Finally, a faction calling themselves the New Echota group signed away all of the Cherokee lands to the United States and agreed to be resettled in Indian Territory west of the Mississippi River in what is now Arkansas and Oklahoma.

“That decision did not go over well back in Cherokee Territory. Another group was immediately dispatched to Washington to lobby against the validity of the treaty, arguing that the group that signed the agreement did not represent the true will of the people and were acting for themselves. All efforts failed however, and a short time later the army began rounding up Indians for removal. Up to the last minute, the Cherokee were sure that they would not—and could not—be forced to leave.

“Finally, soldiers began appearing at farms to round up natives to be sent to temporary holding pens for further disposition to the West. Some escaped to the hills and later re-formed into what is now called the ‘Eastern Band’ of the Cherokee. The group that eventually went west became known as the ‘Western Band.’ When the groups all finally arrived in Indian Territory, there were tremendous difficulties and a few assassinations of the leaders who had sold the lands. It’s a very tragic story, Robbie.

“Many historians believe that about 4,000 of the original population of about 16,000 died during the removal, most due to sickness along the Trail or in the holding pens.

“Sickness?” Robbie interrupted.

“Sickness. Whooping cough, cholera, exposure. The holding pens bred virulent diseases, particularly cholera. When the groups finally moved out, the soldiers prodded the natives along like cattle and just kept marching them west. It didn’t matter if they were sick. Besides, most of the groups of a thousand-or-so had only one doctor assigned. They had very little clothing, blankets, food, or water. Many times dead bodies were simply left along the roadside. The commanding officer, General Winfield Scott, ordered his soldiers to treat the natives with as much dignity and respect as possible, but I think history has shown that the vast majority of the natives were poorly treated and, in many cases, taken advantage of.

“I have a few books here if you would like to read more about this. The first one is called Take the Cannoli, written by Sarah Vowell, a social commentator on National Public Radio. The book contains a collection of essays. The one you want is entitled ‘What I See When I Look at the Face on the $20 Bill.’ I’ve tagged it for you. That one is good for an overview. The other book is called Trail of Tears by John Ehle. This one is much more historical. You can get all of the names, dates, places, historical documentation, and details of the whole story. It’s also very good.

“Let me just point out two passages that I marked when I read this book. Perhaps these observations will provide you with some sense of what was actually happening at the time. The first is a letter from the famous poet Ralph Waldo Emerson to then-President Martin Van Buren expressing his dismay over the entire affair:

A crime is projected that confounds our understandings by its magnitude. A crime that really deprives us as well as the Cherokee of a country. For how could we call the conspiracy that should crush these poor Indians our government, or the land that was cursed by their parting and dying imprecations our country any more? You, sir, will bring down the renowned chair in which you sit into infamy if your seal is set to this instrument of perfidy. And the name of this nation, hitherto the sweet omen of religion and liberty, will stink to the world.

Robbie sat quietly as he absorbed Emerson’s comments.

“The other is the actual proclamation from General Scott, announcing the removal and advising the Cherokee to cooperate. When you get a chance take a look at the language used in this, Robbie.” The boy scanned the document.

“I think that covers the frame, Robbie, but there’s certainly much more to this story. Has that been enough for now?”

“Yes. More than enough. Thanks very much, Ms. Hastings.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me why this is so important to you?”

“I’m fine. It’s just a personal thing.”

“O.K. Well, just let me know if you need some help. You don’t seem quite yourself today.”

“It’s O.K., Ms. Hastings. Don’t worry about me. Thanks for the information and the books. I’ll take a look at them.”

Upon his return from school, Robbie stared at the stick for quite a while and then sat down to study Ms. Hastings’ books.

Without hope, we are all lost.

Kofi Annan
Secretary-General of the United Nations

Red Hawk did not appear to Robbie again for another twenty-eight days, until the next full moon.

“Hi, Robbie. Is there anything you’d like to do tonight?”

            “Well, last time you mentioned Colonel Casey. Was that his name? Can you tell me how he got the stick?”

            “Sure, but I must warn you that some of the scenes in this part of the story are also difficult to witness. Do you think you can do it?”

            “I’ll try,” Robbie replied uneasily.

            “Well, let me ask you this. Do you know anything about the Trail of Tears?”

            “No, I don’t think so.”

            “Well, when I was seventeen, our entire Nation was driven off our native grounds by the United States government.”

            Robbie immediately felt uncomfortable with the discussion, sensing the injustice toward Red Hawk and his people.

            Red Hawk continued, “The first part of the process was for the soldiers to round us up and get us into their stockades with no regard for our property or families. So they took us at the end of their rifles, poking stragglers with their bayonets. As I was being forced from my family’s cabin I was able to grab a bag my grandfather had given me with the sticks and some of my sister’s clothes. I thought as I grabbed the sticks that my grandfather’s spirit would help get my sister and me through whatever was about to happen. The soldiers got my sister, my mother, and me on a wagon. My father was way off in our field. He raced back a short time after we were carted off, but fortunately we were able to be reunited at the same stockade. Many other families were torn apart.”

            Robbie felt himself growing sick at the injustice and pain and wasn’t sure whether he wanted to hear the rest. Red Hawk saw the change in Robbie’s countenance and asked if he should stop.

            “No, please go on,” Robbie said reluctantly.

            “I don’t have to, Robbie.”

            “No—I want to learn about the stick and your people.”

            Red Hawk decided to edit out some of the more gruesome aspects of the horror, particularly the parts describing soldiers’ stealing, extortion, and the unspeakable liberties many took with the women and girls. Robbie wasn’t ready for all of that, Red Hawk realized.

            “Well, my mother died of cholera in the holding pen.”

            Robbie felt tears well up in his eye. How could this have happened?

            “My father and uncle died when the raft we were on with several others sank in the icy Ohio River. Somehow my sister and I managed to make it to shore. I believed then and I believe now that my grandfather’s spirit was with us, and saved us.”

            Robbie could not believe what he was hearing.

            “Lieutenant Casey was, at times, the only thing that kept us going. When my mother died in the stockade, he diverted from his orders by allowing me and my father outside the gate to bury her. On the Trail he came by to check on us when he could. After my father and uncle died in the river, Lieutenant Casey went even further out of his way to see that my sister and I were faring as well as could be expected. We were not the only ones who benefited from his goodness. Whenever he could he went out of his way to help us. My people had built up a great deal of contempt for the officers and soldiers who drove them west. The soldiers were not particularly sympathetic. They simply continued to prod us with little regard for the well-being of our people. I regret to say that it was probably the best they could do as they had little food, water, and provisions themselves.

            “Lieutenant Casey showed a great deal of empathy for me, my sister, and many others. He helped push our wagons out of the mud, rather than simply watching us do it ourselves. Instead of drinking water first, like most of his comrades, he made sure that the weak and elderly had an adequate amount. Instead of leaving the sick on the side of the road to die, Casey sought medical assistance whenever he could. Many times he even stayed behind to help bury the dead.

            “We could see that Casey had been regularly chided by his superiors and even mocked behind his back by other soldiers for what they believed was diminishing himself to a level below his station. We knew that the lieutenant would be unable to relieve all our suffering, but he made the pain more bearable. He became a hero to everyone he helped, and for the rest of their lives those people would remember his acts of kindness.”

            Robbie was thankful for something positive in all of the misery.

            “As my sister and I trudged along, day after day I quietly kept begging my grandfather to ‘Stay with me.’ Every day I became weaker and more heartsick, but I knew that I must go on, if for no other reason than to care for my sister. I think that if Lieutenant Casey had not helped us, we would have perished as well. For beyond the physical needs he met—a little food, some water, a blanket—it was the glimmer of hope he continued to keep alive in my heart that kept me going.

            “I had nothing to offer Casey to repay his kindness. He gave us our lives. When we arrived in the Indian Territory after four miserable months, I wanted to thank him for the respect, character, and dignity he had worked so desperately to retain for all of my people.

            “Then I saw a vision of my grandfather, who suggested that I present Casey with one of the sticks. I could almost feel my grandfather choosing the words as they came out of my mouth to Casey:

            My grandfather presented this stick to me when I was a boy. It had been crafted for him by his grandfather many years before. He shared with me many of the lessons he believed would carry me through a difficult life. He also shared with me the spirit of the warrior and the spirit of our game. He died a short time later. Since he has passed to the Great Spirit, I have been able to feel his spirit in the stick, and I have even been able to communicate with him through it. He is always with me. When my mother, father, and other family members died during this dreaded march, my grandfather became my strength. Whenever I was in need, I invoked his spirit. I want you to have this stick because you have shown great character, empathy, and compassion. During the march your honor and courage were not overlooked. My people will always be heartsick for having been driven from their homes. But it would be of no use for me, you, or our people to live in anger. Though many of my people will mock and ridicule me for retaining hope despite this unthinkable tragedy, just as you sometimes bore such rebuke for your humane efforts, you give me hope, the greatest gift one can offer, that our people might still be able to live together in harmony. Please keep this stick as a reminder of the great heritage of my people, and continue to be upright in all of your dealings with them. Perhaps when you are in need of assistance, you might solicit my grandfather’s spirit to stay with you.

            “After my sister and I survived the crossing of the Ohio River, I carved a Sunflower in the shafts of the sticks so that she would be with me for all time. We will keep the other stick and pass it down to our descendants, should we be so fortunate. You and I will be forever linked as individuals and as a people by these sticks. All I ask is that you continue to respect my people and all people.

            “Respect the game of the Creator that means so much to us. Of all the things that were stripped from us in the removal, we will be able to maintain the dignity of our game. Pass the stick along to a worthy person of your choosing. Like you he should be a person of strength, spirit, character, leadership, courage, empathy, and compassion. I hope, he, like you and I, will feel the spirit in the stick and use that strength to the betterment of all people.”

            “I’m so sorry that you and your people were treated so badly, Red Hawk,” Robbie offered sincerely.

            “Thank you. Lieutenant Casey made it much more tolerable. He was a great man. Let me show you something, Robbie.”

            Red Hawk took Robbie for a short visit to the Cadet Chapel at West Point, New York in 1841.

            “That is Captain Casey,” Red Hawk said as his eyes trained on the only person in the Chapel, sitting on the end of a pew beneath a wooden slatted window. The shards of light coming through the window bathed Casey’s face with alternating light and darkness. Casey had made the pilgrimage to his alma mater in search of relief for his nagging conscience.

            The boys sat near Casey. Robbie could not help but notice the many bronze plaques and cannon commemorating the conquests—and losses—of the Academy’s graduates mounted upon each of the walls. Cannon, the boy pondered, in a chapel? Robbie continued to survey the beautiful simplicity of the Chapel: white walls, white benches covered with crimson seat cushions, four Greek-style pillars on either side of the center aisle.

            Casey stirred in his seat, drawing a thump of the boy’s heart. Robbie saw the stick in Casey’s hands. The officer was thinking of Red Hawk as he carved away on the shaft with a small knife. Robbie followed Casey’s eyes to the magnificent “Peace and War” mural above the altar. The captain studied the scene depicted in the mural, a woman in a flowing white dress, a man holding the American flag, and, centered between them, the nation’s symbol, the bald eagle with its wings outstretched and holding a streamer in its beak with the motto E Pluribus Unum. The stars strewn above the heads of the figures proclaimed the majesty of the heavens.

            Casey mocked the Biblical passage framed below the eagle in the mural: Righteousness exalteth a nation: But sin is a reproach to any people. Prov. XIV.

            “Righteousness? What we did to those innocent people was not ‘righteousness.’ I thought this school was about protecting people’s freedoms. We stripped freedoms away from them! Is that not a ‘sin?’ Well?…”

            Casey paused, inviting a response to his questions from God. Receiving none, he continued his soliloquy, “How many people did we kill for no reason? How many people died from exposure or disease? At least Red Hawk and Sunflower survived.” His voice began to rise slightly, “But how many died?”

            Again he paused, soliciting a Divine response.

            Casey waited quietly, chipping away on the shaft. Robbie’s heart leapt with excitement when he recognized the pillars of the Chapel taking form on the stick.

            For over an hour Casey sat brokenhearted, occasionally wiping moisture from his eyes, still waiting and hoping for a reply. The captain then rose slowly from his pew, looked to the cross sitting upon the altar and made one last plea, “I need some help on this.” He lingered once more—to no avail, and shuffled out.

            “He resigned his commission not long after this, Robbie, and returned to his farm in Alabama,” Red Hawk offered with little emotion.

Robbie awoke with a completely different outlook on his life and later that night commended the story to his journal.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead,
Dear as the blood ye gave,
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave.
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While fame her record keeps,
For honor points the hallowed spot
Where valor proudly sleeps.

From “The Bivouac of the Dead”
Theodore O’Hara, 1847

            Lewis met Robbie and his family at the visitor’s center at Gettysburg National Military Park at the appointed time of 8 a.m. on March 10th. The group sat briefly for doughnuts, coffee, and drinks before embarking upon the ambitious task of the day—to cover as much of the Battlefield and Cemetery as possible before heading to Johns Hopkins to watch the Blue Jays’ season opener versus Princeton.

“Robbie couldn’t wait to meet you here today, Jim,” John Jones said as his welcome.

“I thought this would be a good place to visit. Robbie has probably gained some sense of the significance of this Battlefield, but I thought it might be useful for all of us to visit here together. There’s a lot to see. Mr. Turnbull met me and my parents here in 1962 before I entered the Naval Academy. He showed us the spot where he had met General Chamberlain in 1913. He also took me to the site of the makeshift field hospital. It has stayed in my mind ever since.”

Lewis drove the family first to Little Round Top. He parked the car and allowed the family to mill around to take in the sight for a few minutes. Lewis drifted away down the slope.

“Well, this is where it happened,” Lewis said as he stood on the steeply sloped hill. The family picked their way through the rocks to meet him.

“This is where Chamberlain and Casey met face-to-face. If Casey’s shot had hit Chamberlain, there is a good chance none of us would be here.”

The group stood quietly for several minutes, surveying the terrain and picturing in their own ways what must have happened here. Robbie could not believe the correspondence between his vision and the actual landscape.

Lewis then led them back up the hill and down a narrow walk—away from the main battle area and a number of impressive monuments—to the modest 20th Maine Monument.

“This is where Mr. Turnbull met Chamberlain,” Lewis offered, looking at Robbie for confirmation of the exact location. Robbie nodded. The family noticed the Maltese Cross emblazoned on the sides of the cubic granite marker. Robbie’s mind went back to the visit with Red Hawk—how they had watched Chamberlain sit there. Lewis then escorted the group back to the main area on Little Round Top, suggesting that the family peruse the grounds for themselves.

The sheer number of markers, statues, and historical plaques was enough to capture the attention of the guests for over an hour. Lewis smiled as he watched Robbie and Catherine struggle through the cracks and crevices of the rocky terrain while the parents contented themselves largely with the plaques and statues on the main walk.

John and Mary Jones read the marker honoring Colonel Strong Vincent’s famous order to Chamberlain, “Hold this ground at all costs.” Lewis gently whispered over their shoulders, “I think it is fair to say that any less an order may have caused Chamberlain to rethink his tactics. He really had no choice but to do what he did. Vincent died in the engagement.”

Catherine and Robbie marveled at the life-size statues of the famous combatants. The group walked several hundred yards to the north and east. Again Lewis’s eyes solicited Robbie’s concurrence as he announced their arrival at the location of the field hospital. “This is where the actual exchange of the stick took place.” The parents contemplated the circumstances occurring one-hundred-and-forty years before that had so dramatically affected their lives. A chill ran through them.

Lewis collected the group and drove them next to the wall made famous by imposing the ultimate failure of Pickett’s Charge. Again the group was struck by the countless markers along the way and at the site. The larger-than-life bronze statue to General George Meade on horseback not far from the wall drew the family’s attention. Virtually every regiment that fought had erected some tribute to their fallen comrades.

They walked to The Soldiers National Cemetery at Gettysburg. “Has Red Hawk brought you here yet, Robbie?” Lewis asked.

“No, sir.”

“This might be the most compelling part of the whole park. This cemetery is located pretty near where the center of the Union line was positioned during the battle.”

They walked to the large statue of Abraham Lincoln and read the words of the “Gettysburg Address” that he had presented as part of the dedication ceremony November 19, 1863. Next, they walked solemnly to the area where the Union soldiers were buried. Laid out in a semicircle around the centerpiece of the Cemetery—the magnificent Statue of Freedom—were 3512 gravestones, 979 of which were simply marked “unknown.” The austerity of the markers struck Robbie and his family—small granite stones. Name. Rank. Division. There was no separation between officers and soldiers. Each state was arranged together. Mary Jones was particularly pained to see the markers for the unknown soldiers. She silently pined over the mothers, the wives, the children, the families who never achieved closure.

As the group walked through the cemetery, Lewis pointed out the New York Statue, looming high above their heads, commemorating the state that suffered the most severe losses. Lewis offered little commentary at this point and allowed the sights—and the assorted stanzas from the poem “The Bivouac of the Dead” spaced at equal intervals along the road—to speak for themselves.

Lewis then told Robbie and Catherine a story of his visit to this park with Doug Turnbull. “Mr. Turnbull shared with me that as beautiful, magnificent, compelling, and important as these monuments are, he was concerned that they might actually render a disservice to these heroic men.”

The children stared at Lewis with inquisitive looks.

“Mr. Turnbull believed that a statue could never replace an actual person. That to reduce such brilliant lives to cold, unfeeling, inert masses can lead one to forget the spirit, energy, and life of these men. The artists commissioned to craft these pieces have an obligation to convey—somehow—these very traits. And as brilliant as they are, he thought they tell only a tiny fraction of the story. He told me that having his brother Jack back would have been worth more than a million statues.

“So as you look at each of these markers and monuments, try to remember that each of these men was a son, brother, husband, father. A real person with a smile, a wit, a spirit, a life all his own—gifts each shared with families, friends, communities, and comrades.

“Mr. Turnbull made a compelling case that it is up to those left behind to keep the memories of their fallen comrades alive. I have since lost many friends, colleagues, and shipmates. I have seen them remembered in a number of ways—tributes roughly similar to these at the United States Naval Academy, Arlington National Cemetery, as well as many other places. I have tried very hard, though, not to let the lives of my friends be reduced to marble or bronze. I have actively tried to keep their spirits alive in what I do, to keep them alive in my heart and mind, to share their goodness—what they have given me—with as many people as I can. I try to live the example these people have provided me. Each of these markers has inspired me to give a little more, to be a little more patient, and to be a better person.”

The children began to understand Lewis’s point.

“Well, I guess that’s about it for now. 51,000 killed, wounded, or captured. Not much else to say.

“We need to be leaving soon if we want to get to Johns Hopkins on time. There’s a pre-game ceremony which I think you’ll like to see.”

Lewis made sure that his guests were seated and prepared for what was about to occur. Most of the other spectators were remarkably subdued a full fifteen minutes before game time. It was the first home game of the season for the Blue Jays, and the sophisticated followers of the program knew that reverence and quiet was in order.

“Ladies and gentlemen, at this time we ask that you please stand for the Annual Memorial Ceremony,” the public address announcer began. The 8,000 fans stood and directed their attention to the Hopkins team captains standing on the midfield line in front of their team’s bench. As each of the two players began walking solemnly toward opposite goals, the announcer continued, “For 82 years, at each home game of the Johns Hopkins University, there has hung at one goal a service flag with three gold stars. That flag, presented by the lacrosse team of 1919, commemorates the loss in World War I of three Hopkins lacrosse players. These men are:

1. Brown Baxley

Warren B. Hunting

And Theodore Prince.

“A second service flag bears eight gold stars which pay tribute to eight former Hopkins lacrosse players who lost their lives in the Second World War and in the Vietnam War.

“From World War II, they are:

Frank Cone

Walter J. Farenholz

David H. W. Houck

George D. Penniman III

Edward A. Marshall

Peter W. Reynolds

And John I. Turnbull.

“And in the Vietnam War:

Charles E. Aronhalt.

“We pause today to rededicate the flag of World War I and the flag of World War II and the Vietnam War. These flags will always hang in the goals at each home game of the Johns Hopkins University lacrosse team.

“Please remain standing until these flags are attached to the goals.”

Lewis and the Joneses stood unfazed by the biting March wind, absorbed by the solemnity of the ceremony. The length and depth of the silence shook the first-time observers as all in attendance patiently observed the captains perform their time-honored duty. The captain nearest Lewis’s group paused as he arrived behind the goal, took an exaggerated breath, stared at his flag momentarily, and knelt next to the goal as if before an altar. Mary Jones’s knees buckled in sympathy with the player’s as he assumed his position. The captain carefully weaved the strings of the flag into the stringing of the net.

The only noises Robbie heard were the steady whistling of the wind and the sharp cracking of the American flag flying above the stadium. Then his ear picked up the muffled tone from the goal near him. Though not nearly as loud, the service flag had begun to sing the same song as the Stars and Stripes above. As Robbie stared at the service flag he was shaken by the thought that one of the stars represented the life of Jack Turnbull. He watched the stars gently undulate in response to the wind. The boy felt as though the wind—maybe it was Jack—was talking to him.

The captains made their way to the sideline and the warm welcome of their teammates and coaches. The visiting Princeton Tigers rendered their respect with soft applause for the captains.

“Thank you,” the public address announcer concluded.

As the teams gathered for final coaching instructions and team cheers, the crowd sat and began to buzz with excitement for the impending season-opening face-off. Lewis leaned closer to Robbie and whispered above the wind, “Robbie, I played against the last player they mentioned—Chuck Aronhalt. He was Class of ’64 here at Hopkins, so I played against him when he was a senior and I was a sophomore. I knew Chuck had died in Vietnam in 1967 so I called Hopkins a few weeks ago to get some information about this ceremony and Chuck. They sent me everything they had. I read all of the records on Chuck’s actions in the battle in which he was killed, and let me just say that he took actions to protect his men at the expense of his own life. There is no greater service that anyone can provide for another or for his country. Chuck had already been awarded the Bronze Star for heroism in another engagement and then was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross—the second highest award for heroism behind the Congressional Medal of Honor—for the valiant actions that cost him his life. Chuck also played football here and was captain of the team as a senior. The football team has presented an award in Chuck’s honor and memory since he passed away. I remember him hitting me pretty hard a few times when we played in Annapolis in 1964! We still beat them, though, 15-3, I think,” Lewis concluded with a smile.

“O.K. should we watch the game? Remember when you asked me what it’s like to play college lacrosse? Well, this is it right here. These two teams are about as good as you’ll see. You already know quite a bit about Hopkins, but Princeton is fantastic also. This should be a great game. Just watch how skilled these guys are and how hard they play. See what you can learn from them. It should be fun—and you should get some sense of how much I enjoyed it!”

True to Lewis’s prediction, the game was a hard-fought battle with excellent play by both teams for the entire sixty minutes.

General, you have the soul of a lion and the heart of a woman.

General Horatio G. Sickel
Describing Gen. J.L. Chamberlain
At the Quaker Road, Virginia, March 29, 1865

            At the next full moon Red Hawk again appeared to Robbie.

            “Hi, Robbie. Is there anything you would like to see or a place you would like to go to tonight?”

            “General Chamberlain never really said exactly how he met Colonel Casey at Gettysburg. I’ve been curious about that, you know, since they were on opposite sides. Do you know anything about that? Can we go there?”

            Red Hawk brought Robbie to the slope of Little Round Top on July 2, 1863 as the Twentieth Maine and the Fifteenth Alabama prepared to clash. Red Hawk paused and cautioned Robbie that at this point they were about to observe actual battle but assured him that they would remain untouched by the action. He asked if the boy felt strong enough to witness the engagement. Robbie indicated his readiness. Red Hawk began with a brief description of what they were about to see.

            “Casey was tasked with leading the 15th Alabama on an assault on the Union left flank at this location known as Little Round Top. Success in this venture likely would have allowed the Confederates to get behind the Union lines and claim victory. Failure to gain the flank would likely result in defeat! The sector was defended by the 20th Maine Infantry, commanded by then-Colonel Chamberlain.

            “After a long forced march, and with no water, Casey and his men made a daring and gallant charge—uphill—to take the flank. Both sides fought viciously and fearlessly. Despite the heroic efforts of his men, Chamberlain saw the Confederates continue their charge. With his men nearly out of ammunition, he ordered his troops to fix bayonets and charge the rebels. This was an unorthodox and bold move to say the least.

            “At this point the battle could have gone to either side. In fact, many people believe the disposition of the whole war hung in the balance during those fateful minutes on the slope of Little Round Top. Casey was wounded during the fray, hit in the leg by a bullet. Despite his terrible bleeding he continued with his men in their charge.

            “Are you sure you’re ready, Robbie?”

            The boy nodded.

            Despite his assent, Robbie was stunned to be thrown into the fray and was immediately overwhelmed by the action. The heat, smell, and ear-shattering noise nauseated him. He saw dead and bloodied bodies all about and heard the visceral cries of those in their last moments of life. But he stood tall, comforted by the confidence that Red Hawk had brought him there to observe, not to participate.

            The scene began as the injured Casey led the charge up the slope. He finally stumbled and fell just short of Chamberlain. The Confederate colonel aimed his pistol at Chamberlain, who was brandishing only his officer’s saber. Just as Casey triggered his piece, Chamberlain instinctively dove to the ground and rolled toward the crippled southerner. He came out of his roll with his sword swinging toward the helpless officer. Chamberlain arrested his rage-filled swing when he sensed that the man he was about to kill was seriously wounded. Chamberlain rested his saber just below Casey’s chin then slowly withdrew and sheathed it. The Union colonel immediately removed his neckerchief and applied it to Casey’s gushing wound. Chamberlain summoned his medics to treat the officer. The men obliged, dragging Casey out of the fray and laying him next to a tree where they could more carefully treat his wound.

            Red Hawk continued his description: “After Chamberlain had summoned his medics to treat Casey, he immediately returned to the carnage, leading his men in a stand to hold Little Round Top.

            “Then after a brief rest, the 20th Maine was ordered as a support unit at Great Round Top. Chamberlain had been wounded in the foot at Little Round Top but chose to delay treatment while his men were still in reserve. His men helped repel the famous Pickett’s Charge, and the Union line held. Only after the rebels began their retreat did Chamberlain report to the field hospital to tend to his wounds. When he arrived he specifically asked to see the Confederate colonel.”

            Red Hawk then took Robbie to the field hospital where Casey had been drifting in and out of consciousness all afternoon because of the tremendous loss of blood. As Chamberlain approached, limping badly, Casey identified him as the officer who had not only spared his life, but had saved it. Casey was grateful for the opportunity to thank the Union officer. The Alabaman extended his right hand, still shaking badly from the effects of shock. Chamberlain accepted the hand and held it firmly to ease its trembling.

            “Colonel Patrick John Casey 15th Alabama, sir. You are wounded. You must be treated,” Casey pleaded.

            “Colonel Lawrence Chamberlain, 20th Maine. I’ll be fine,” the northerner replied calmly.

            Not knowing if and how long he might live, Casey labored haltingly: “You, sir, spared then saved my life when you could easily and justifiably have ended it in the name of your cause. You have demonstrated the most remarkable display of honor and compassion man has ever witnessed.”

            “There has been more than enough death in this conflict already, my good man. I am sure that you would have done the same. Please rest.”

            Casey motioned to a medic to bring his pack. During every step of the campaign Casey had carried the bag and its precious contents with him, and it had provided him strength and wisdom. Casey’s mind drifted back to the scene when he had received the stick twenty-five years before. It seemed yesterday to him.

            Casey handed the stick and bag to Chamberlain and continued his laborious comments, “For a man to spare the life of an enemy at great peril to himself is to have shown the greatest love of mankind. You, sir, are the epitome of nobility. This gift is in honor of your magnanimity. I hope it will serve you as well as it has served me. Godspeed. Now, please tend to your wounds.”

            Chamberlain squeezed the colonel’s hand one last time and, despite a tremendous desire to stay to comfort the Confederate, he obliged the request to seek treatment for his own wounds. He had already tempted fate in his delay. As Chamberlain was assisted to the Union tent, he prayed that the colonel would survive.

            Robbie watched the exchange between the two colonels. For the first time in his life, ground combat had a face. At his young age, his schooling had provided only superficial details of battle, mostly names and dates. These were real people with real wounds and real feelings, Robbie thought. He was deeply moved by the heroic and noble actions of both officers.

Robbie woke with a new-found energy. He made some remarks in his journal before he headed out to school and elaborated on them later that night.

Name. Rank. Division.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead,

Dear as the blood ye gave,

No impious footstep here shall tread

The herbage of your grave.

Nor shall your glory be forgot

While fame her record keeps,

For honor points the hallowed spot

Where valor proudly sleeps.

From “The Bivouac of the Dead”
Theodore O’Hara, 1847

            Lewis met Robbie and his family at the visitor’s center at Gettysburg National Military Park at the appointed time of 8 a.m. on March 10th. The group sat briefly for doughnuts, coffee, and drinks before embarking upon the ambitious task of the day—to cover as much of the Battlefield and Cemetery as possible before heading to Johns Hopkins to watch the Blue Jays’ season opener versus Princeton.

“Robbie couldn’t wait to meet you here today, Jim,” John Jones said as his welcome.

“I thought this would be a good place to visit. Robbie has probably gained some sense of the significance of this Battlefield, but I thought it might be useful for all of us to visit here together. There’s a lot to see. Mr. Turnbull met me and my parents here in 1962 before I entered the Naval Academy. He showed us the spot where he had met General Chamberlain in 1913. He also took me to the site of the makeshift field hospital. It has stayed in my mind ever since.”

Lewis drove the family first to Little Round Top. He parked the car and allowed the family to mill around to take in the sight for a few minutes. Lewis drifted away down the slope.

“Well, this is where it happened,” Lewis said as he stood on the steeply sloped hill. The family picked their way through the rocks to meet him.

“This is where Chamberlain and Casey met face-to-face. If Casey’s shot had hit Chamberlain, there is a good chance none of us would be here.”

The group stood quietly for several minutes, surveying the terrain and picturing in their own ways what must have happened here. Robbie could not believe the correspondence between his vision and the actual landscape.

Lewis then led them back up the hill and down a narrow walk—away from the main battle area and a number of impressive monuments—to the modest 20th Maine Monument.

“This is where Mr. Turnbull met Chamberlain,” Lewis offered, looking at Robbie for confirmation of the exact location. Robbie nodded. The family noticed the Maltese Cross emblazoned on the sides of the cubic granite marker. Robbie’s mind went back to the visit with Red Hawk—how they had watched Chamberlain sit there. Lewis then escorted the group back to the main area on Little Round Top, suggesting that the family peruse the grounds for themselves.

The sheer number of markers, statues, and historical plaques was enough to capture the attention of the guests for over an hour. Lewis smiled as he watched Robbie and Catherine struggle through the cracks and crevices of the rocky terrain while the parents contented themselves largely with the plaques and statues on the main walk.

John and Mary Jones read the marker honoring Colonel Strong Vincent’s famous order to Chamberlain, “Hold this ground at all costs.” Lewis gently whispered over their shoulders, “I think it is fair to say that any less an order may have caused Chamberlain to rethink his tactics. He really had no choice but to do what he did. Vincent died in the engagement.”

Catherine and Robbie marveled at the life-size statues of the famous combatants. The group walked several hundred yards to the north and east. Again Lewis’s eyes solicited Robbie’s concurrence as he announced their arrival at the location of the field hospital. “This is where the actual exchange of the stick took place.” The parents contemplated the circumstances occurring one-hundred-and-forty years before that had so dramatically affected their lives. A chill ran through them.

Lewis collected the group and drove them next to the wall made famous by imposing the ultimate failure of Pickett’s Charge. Again the group was struck by the countless markers along the way and at the site. The larger-than-life bronze statue to General George Meade on horseback not far from the wall drew the family’s attention. Virtually every regiment that fought had erected some tribute to their fallen comrades.

They walked to The Soldiers National Cemetery at Gettysburg. “Has Red Hawk brought you here yet, Robbie?” Lewis asked.

“No, sir.”

“This might be the most compelling part of the whole park. This cemetery is located pretty near where the center of the Union line was positioned during the battle.”

They walked to the large statue of Abraham Lincoln and read the words of the “Gettysburg Address” that he had presented as part of the dedication ceremony November 19, 1863. Next, they walked solemnly to the area where the Union soldiers were buried. Laid out in a semicircle around the centerpiece of the Cemetery—the magnificent Statue of Freedom—were 3512 gravestones, 979 of which were simply marked “unknown.” The austerity of the markers struck Robbie and his family—small granite stones. Name. Rank. Division. There was no separation between officers and soldiers. Each state was arranged together. Mary Jones was particularly pained to see the markers for the unknown soldiers. She silently pined over the mothers, the wives, the children, the families who never achieved closure.

As the group walked through the cemetery, Lewis pointed out the New York Statue, looming high above their heads, commemorating the state that suffered the most severe losses. Lewis offered little commentary at this point and allowed the sights—and the assorted stanzas from the poem “The Bivouac of the Dead” spaced at equal intervals along the road—to speak for themselves.

Lewis then told Robbie and Catherine a story of his visit to this park with Doug Turnbull. “Mr. Turnbull shared with me that as beautiful, magnificent, compelling, and important as these monuments are, he was concerned that they might actually render a disservice to these heroic men.”

The children stared at Lewis with inquisitive looks.

“Mr. Turnbull believed that a statue could never replace an actual person. That to reduce such brilliant lives to cold, unfeeling, inert masses can lead one to forget the spirit, energy, and life of these men. The artists commissioned to craft these pieces have an obligation to convey—somehow—these very traits. And as brilliant as they are, he thought they tell only a tiny fraction of the story. He told me that having his brother Jack back would have been worth more than a million statues.

“So as you look at each of these markers and monuments, try to remember that each of these men was a son, brother, husband, father. A real person with a smile, a wit, a spirit, a life all his own—gifts each shared with families, friends, communities, and comrades.

“Mr. Turnbull made a compelling case that it is up to those left behind to keep the memories of their fallen comrades alive. I have since lost many friends, colleagues, and shipmates. I have seen them remembered in a number of ways—tributes roughly similar to these at the United States Naval Academy, Arlington National Cemetery, as well as many other places. I have tried very hard, though, not to let the lives of my friends be reduced to marble or bronze. I have actively tried to keep their spirits alive in what I do, to keep them alive in my heart and mind, to share their goodness—what they have given me—with as many people as I can. I try to live the example these people have provided me. Each of these markers has inspired me to give a little more, to be a little more patient, and to be a better person.”

The children began to understand Lewis’s point.

“Well, I guess that’s about it for now. 51,000 killed, wounded, or captured. Not much else to say.

“We need to be leaving soon if we want to get to Johns Hopkins on time. There’s a pre-game ceremony which I think you’ll like to see.”

Lewis made sure that his guests were seated and prepared for what was about to occur. Most of the other spectators were remarkably subdued a full fifteen minutes before game time. It was the first home game of the season for the Blue Jays, and the sophisticated followers of the program knew that reverence and quiet was in order.

“Ladies and gentlemen, at this time we ask that you please stand for the Annual Memorial Ceremony,” the public address announcer began. The 8,000 fans stood and directed their attention to the Hopkins team captains standing on the midfield line in front of their team’s bench. As each of the two players began walking solemnly toward opposite goals, the announcer continued, “For 82 years, at each home game of the Johns Hopkins University, there has hung at one goal a service flag with three gold stars. That flag, presented by the lacrosse team of 1919, commemorates the loss in World War I of three Hopkins lacrosse players. These men are:

1. Brown Baxley

Warren B. Hunting

And Theodore Prince.

“A second service flag bears eight gold stars which pay tribute to eight former Hopkins lacrosse players who lost their lives in the Second World War and in the Vietnam War.

“From World War II, they are:

Frank Cone

Walter J. Farenholz

David H. W. Houck

George D. Penniman III

Edward A. Marshall

Peter W. Reynolds

And John I. Turnbull.

“And in the Vietnam War:

Charles E. Aronhalt.

“We pause today to rededicate the flag of World War I and the flag of World War II and the Vietnam War. These flags will always hang in the goals at each home game of the Johns Hopkins University lacrosse team.

“Please remain standing until these flags are attached to the goals.”

Lewis and the Joneses stood unfazed by the biting March wind, absorbed by the solemnity of the ceremony. The length and depth of the silence shook the first-time observers as all in attendance patiently observed the captains perform their time-honored duty. The captain nearest Lewis’s group paused as he arrived behind the goal, took an exaggerated breath, stared at his flag momentarily, and knelt next to the goal as if before an altar. Mary Jones’s knees buckled in sympathy with the player’s as he assumed his position. The captain carefully weaved the strings of the flag into the stringing of the net.

The only noises Robbie heard were the steady whistling of the wind and the sharp cracking of the American flag flying above the stadium. Then his ear picked up the muffled tone from the goal near him. Though not nearly as loud, the service flag had begun to sing the same song as the Stars and Stripes above. As Robbie stared at the service flag he was shaken by the thought that one of the stars represented the life of Jack Turnbull. He watched the stars gently undulate in response to the wind. The boy felt as though the wind—maybe it was Jack—was talking to him.

The captains made their way to the sideline and the warm welcome of their teammates and coaches. The visiting Princeton Tigers rendered their respect with soft applause for the captains.

“Thank you,” the public address announcer concluded.

As the teams gathered for final coaching instructions and team cheers, the crowd sat and began to buzz with excitement for the impending season-opening face-off. Lewis leaned closer to Robbie and whispered above the wind, “Robbie, I played against the last player they mentioned—Chuck Aronhalt. He was Class of ’64 here at Hopkins, so I played against him when he was a senior and I was a sophomore. I knew Chuck had died in Vietnam in 1967 so I called Hopkins a few weeks ago to get some information about this ceremony and Chuck. They sent me everything they had. I read all of the records on Chuck’s actions in the battle in which he was killed, and let me just say that he took actions to protect his men at the expense of his own life. There is no greater service that anyone can provide for another or for his country. Chuck had already been awarded the Bronze Star for heroism in another engagement and then was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross—the second highest award for heroism behind the Congressional Medal of Honor—for the valiant actions that cost him his life. Chuck also played football here and was captain of the team as a senior. The football team has presented an award in Chuck’s honor and memory since he passed away. I remember him hitting me pretty hard a few times when we played in Annapolis in 1964! We still beat them, though, 15-3, I think,” Lewis concluded with a smile.

“O.K. should we watch the game? Remember when you asked me what it’s like to play college lacrosse? Well, this is it right here. These two teams are about as good as you’ll see. You already know quite a bit about Hopkins, but Princeton is fantastic also. This should be a great game. Just watch how skilled these guys are and how hard they play. See what you can learn from them. It should be fun—and you should get some sense of how much I enjoyed it!”

True to Lewis’s prediction, the game was a hard-fought battle with excellent play by both teams for the entire sixty minutes.

To read well, that is, to read true books in a true spirit, is a noble exercise, and one that will task the reader more than any exercise which the customs of the day esteem. It requires a training such as the athletes underwent, the steady intention almost of the whole life to this object.

Henry David Thoreau
Walden

Robbie received an e-mail from Captain Lewis reading:

“Robbie, I’m sorry that I cannot make a trip to see you this month as I had planned. Please forgive me. We just picked up a project that is going to require me to be in the office almost non-stop for about two weeks. I had been meaning to share this letter that I received from Mr. Turnbull on the occasion of my high school graduation. I found it very useful at the time and I have read it many times since. I’ll call you in a few weeks.”

Robbie responded, “No problem. THANKS,” and eagerly opened the attachment:

June 22, 1962

Dear Jim,

Today you reach a significant milestone in your life, your graduation from high school. I thought I’d take a minute to share a few thoughts with you as you prepare to take a new path in your life.

First of all, I hope that you realize how much I have enjoyed our relationship over the last four years. I hope that your growth as custodian of Red Hawk’s stick has been as great and rewarding as mine.

I cannot begin to share the countless lessons I have learned from Red Hawk and the stick. You will surely benefit from the stick as I did, but you will also benefit from your own explorations and experiences, and from a number of people that you will meet along the way.

Your choice of college presents a unique challenge that will affect everything you do in your life from here forward. I commend and thank you for “picking up where Jack Turnbull left off.” Your tribute to Jack and our family, not to mention our country, is truly humbling.

Though I was never a military officer, perhaps I can offer some of Jack’s insight for your consideration. Jack was always first and foremost concerned for his men. He always made sure that their needs were met before he considered anything for himself. That included his junior officers—not just his enlisted men. Next to that, Jack placed a high priority on physical strength and courage. He never let anyone in the chain-of-command outwork him physically.

Jack expected a lot from his men. He got their best efforts because he was fair with them. They appreciated his skill, knowledge, ability, and work ethic, but he gained their respect because he genuinely cared about them and worked hard for them.

When the men let Jack, themselves, or the crew down, he made sure to identify the deficiency, but he did it in a positive manner. He always found ways for the men to remedy and improve the situation. As you assume your positions of leadership in the fleet in a few years, I hope that Jack’s example might be of some use to you.

At this point in my life, I have sometimes looked back to see what I have learned. Though I feel I have learned a great deal, I often tell my children that I am still not much closer to knowing what I would like to know—or even what I need to know. I think a lot about the ways of the world, and what might be called the “Laws of Nature.”

So let me “think on paper” a little and share some of those reflections, with the hope that you accept these musings not as absolute truth, but rather as a starting point from which to begin thinking about issues, taking your own journey, and if you are lucky, arriving at your own conclusions. So, with fifty-nine years behind me, here are a few thoughts:

I can never read enough!

I have come to believe that patience is the greatest of all virtues.

I have become infinitely more appreciative of the intrinsic, aesthetic value of art, music, poetry, theater, dance, and literature over the years.

I have come to believe that actions are worth far more than words—and its corollary that the best form of leadership is example.

I have learned that substance is worth a lot more than style, that function is worth a lot more than form, and that good friends are worth a lot more than money.

I have learned the value of taking advantage of one’s opportunities.

I have become much more sensitive to the precarious balance of nature. I try not to consume or waste any more than I absolutely have to.

I have endeavored to study history so that I might learn more about the human condition. I have found that life has always been a struggle and always will be.

I think since Jack’s death I have tried not to take anything for granted—my health, my wife, my children, my job. As you know, within a few weeks of each other just a few years ago, my mother passed away, and my son graduated from West Point. Both events brought into even sharper focus the fragility and uncertainty of our lives. I have developed a tremendous appreciation for life. I feel fortunate to have had such positive support from my family and friends all these years, but especially to have my children as healthy as they are. I don’t know what the future holds for my son Bruce, now a first lieutenant in the U.S. Army. All I can do is hope that he works hard and that he will answer the calls put to him. As his father, though, I have to admit that I secretly pray that he will not be called as Jack was.

I have become painfully aware that Thomas Paine’s maxim, “Those who expect to reap the blessings of liberty must undergo the fatigues of supporting it,” is so true. My mother, in particular, bore that burden during World War II. As our son wears the uniform of the United States, my wife and I go to sleep every night bearing those very same “fatigues” of supporting our country’s freedom. Your parents will, as well.

I regret to inform you that your will, courage, honor, integrity, fidelity, strength, resilience, and intellect will be challenged beyond what they have been at this point, and at times more than you will want. My only advice in this area is to work hard, and remember that maintaining your honor in difficult times can never be bad. Perhaps Shakespeare’s missive, “This above all, to thine own self be true,” might guide you through particularly trying circumstances.

I have intentionally selected Profiles in Courage for your graduation gift. It seems an appropriate gift for a future leader. Please enjoy it.

So, Jim, congratulations on your graduation and best of luck as you engage a whole new world of challenges at the United States Naval Academy. I look forward to following your already-brilliant career on the lacrosse field. I hope to attend many games. You can count on me to be your biggest fan (except when you play Johns Hopkins!).

As always, please let me know if there is anything I can do to assist you. I know that Red Hawk will provide you a great deal of insight and wisdom.

Let me leave you with a saying that my father used to drill into Jack and me, “ABAG!” —Always Be a Gentleman!

Godspeed,

Doug

Once again, Robbie was overwhelmed by this heartfelt letter and shared it with his parents.