You sat there in the loneliness of your Charleston home, wondering how the magnificent secession could have gone so wrong in four short years. That day at Fort Moultrie on the north side of the harbor seemed like only yesterday. How many pamphlets had you written and how many speeches had you given to bring about that moment?
“Mr. Ruffin,” Gen. Beauregard asked, “would you do us the honor of firing the first cannon shot on Fort Sumter?”
“I would be very pleased to do so,” you replied. Turning to the crowd standing on the Moultrie battlements you added, “For the glory of my newly independent state of South Carolina!”
The crowds roared, you smiled and wind blew through your long silver hair. At age 67, you knew your years left on this Earth were limited, but at least you had the satisfaction of living each one of them in a land free of damn Yankees. Southerners were secure in their God-given rights to own slaves and to operate their farms according to their own dictates and not at the whim of a despotic federal government.
You traveled to Harper’s Ferry, Virginia, to witness the hanging of that madman John Brown. You confiscated pikes that Brown had intended on handing out to rebellious slaves to use on innocent Southern planters. You sent those pikes to prominent Virginia farmers as proof of the true intention of Yankee barbarians, to unleash vicious Negro retribution upon godly families in the South.
After the surrender of Fort Sumter, you followed the Army of Northern Virginia from town to town. You had the splendid privilege of firing canon upon the Yankee aggressors at such notable battles as Bull Run. Smiling to yourself, you remembered how the soldiers treated you as a beloved grandfather, keeping you from the dangers of the front lines as much as possible. At night, you walked from tent to tent in camp and by lantern light spoke bold words to the young men of their new homeland, encouraging them on to a sure victory because the hand of divine providence guided them.
The silence of your Charleston home enveloped you like a stifling casket as you recalled your frustration and sadness upon hearing news from Gettysburg. By this point, your health no longer permitted you to follow the army, forcing a return to home, now as empty as your expectations. No one spoke in your presence of growing fears that the South might fall. They knew you would issue a vicious rebuke to their lack of confidence in Gen. Lee, President Davis and the rest of the Confederate government.
“Oh ye of little faith,” you intoned many times to no avail.
Victories lessened and the ominous tramping of Yankee soldiers seemed to be everywhere. Now in the spring of 1865 the inevitable was upon the good people of the Confederacy, and each had to decide his own fate.
You wrapped yourself in a Confederate flag and placed the end of the rifle barrel under your chin. Briefly praising God for the blessing of long arms, you pulled the trigger.