By Ernest Lawrence Abel

Five of the Confederacy's top generals were sitting around the dining table one evening early in the war. They had finished their meal and, judging from the mood in the room, had finished a few libations, too. The conversation topic: the Confederate national anthem.

James Longstreet, Gustavus W. Smith, and Earl Van Dorn argued in a friendly barroom style over what tune deserved to be the song of the South. Pierre G.T. Beauregard and Joseph E. Johnston were quieter than the others. They mostly watched with amusement, offering a few well-considered comments. None of the generals stuck up for "Dixie" with much conviction. It seems impossible in hindsight, but many Southerners did not care for the song, deeming the lyrics too unsophisticated. "Maryland, My Maryland" came up as a possible anthem.

Unsatisfied with either of those alternatives, Van Dorn spoke up, taking the discussion in an unexpected direction. The Mississippi native and West Point graduate proposed a stirring duet from I Puritani, the Vincenzo Bellini opera set in the 17th-century English civil war. Driving home his point, he straightened his back, turned up his chin, and launched into the tune's opening notes.

"Up on the table and show yourself," bellowed Longstreet. "We can't see you!"

"Not unless you stand by me!" Van Dorn retorted.

In a moment, Longstreet and Van Dorn obliged each other, and Smith quickly joined them. It must have been quite a scene, three uniformed generals of assorted builds—Longstreet tall, Van Dorn small, and Smith bulky— standing arm-in-arm atop a table, belting out a gritty rendition of an operatic masterpiece at the top of their lungs.

Johnston and Beauregard, meanwhile, watched from below, feet planted firmly on the ground, staid perhaps, compared to the spontaneous trio, but not disapproving; reports had them watching the merrymaking "with twinkling eyes of amusement and enjoyment."

Before the company parted for the night, the Confederacy's top generals concluded that, despite the appeal of the duet and the boisterous, semi-melodious testimony in its behalf, only one song really had what it took to be the Confederate national anthem: "Dixie."

It was not every night that high-ranking generals hoisted themselves onto tabletops to loose a few lines from their favorite operas, but the vast majority of them deeply appreciated music, or at least realized the strong effect it had on their soldiers' morale. These generals were Americans, after all, and Americans were famously enthusiastic about their music. Foreign army officers who came to observe the Civil War frequently commented on the passion for song they found here. Arthur Fremantle, an English army captain traveling with the Confederate army, recalled a night in

Texas when General John Bankhead "Prince John" Magruder and his nephew entertained him with numerous melodies accompanied by a Captain Dwyer on the fiddle.

For decades before the war, the dual pleasures of singing and playing instruments were among America's favorite pastimes, and they retained that status through the war. People from all walks of life could share a song together, whether singing or playing a fiddle, banjo, harmonica, or piano. Communal music-making created a sense of camaraderie among family members, neighbors, work colleagues, and soldiers of all ranks.

DURING THE WAR THERE WAS A SONG for every mood and occasion. Naturally enough for a period gripped by tragedy, there were plenty of melancholy songs, but the Civil War era also had its share of exuberant, rollicking tunes—and more than its share of marches and waltzes. "Dixie," for example, was anything but sad. Soldiers from privates to generals chose songs for the sheer enjoyment of singing them with their comrades. Glee clubs flourished in both armies. There were spontaneous fiddling concerts around the campfire and organized band concerts at night.

In the war's early days, many top Confederate generals attended soirees in Richmond, capital of both Virginia and the fledgling Southern republic. They had plenty of opportunities during these upbeat gatherings to lend their singing voices or instrumental talents to the merriment. One frequenter of these social gatherings, General John Peagram, was not an accomplished musician, but he did receive his due as an "artistic whistler."

One of the South's more legendary partiers was cavalry hero J.E.B. Stuart. During a late 1862 Confederate encampment near Charlestown, Virginia, rarely did a night pass without a dance or other musical event at the local mansion known as "the Bower." Stuart's Prussian-born chief-of-staff, Major Heros Von Borcke, said the general was "always the gayest and noisiest" when at a party, and he usually closed the festivities with a spirited chorus of "Jine the Cavalry." The second Stuart began singing, Von Borcke wrote, "the whole of the excited Company, young and old, joined in and kept singing," the final notes sounding "far through the still air of the night as we walked back to our tents."

Parties, no matter how frequent, were not enough to satisfy Stuart's craving for music. So the general put together his own musical entourage, a group of accomplished performers that became as famous as his cavalry exploits. Sam Sweeney, the banjo player, accompanied Stuart at all times. Formerly a private in one of Stuart's regiments, Sweeney picked the strings so well that Stuart had got wind of his ability, detached him from the regiment, and appointed him to his personal staff. Sweeney became the core of an ensemble rounded out by two fiddlers and "Mulatto Bob," a personal servant to Stuart "who worked the bones with the most surprising and extraordinary agility."

It is no surprise that those familiar with Stuart remembered him singing all the time. He "sang as he fought," wrote Major General John Brown Gordon. Val Giles, a soldier from Texas, recalled the first time he saw Stuart, in April 1862 during an encampment near Williamsburg, Virginia. "About ten o'clock we heard the jingling of spurs, the clanking of sabers, the tinkling of a banjo, and somebody singing...," Giles wrote. "General Stuart was riding in front and old Sweeney, rode by his side, picking his banjo and singing 'Bonnie Jean,' with Stuart and his men joining in on the chorus. That old 'Bonnie Jean' song sounded so sweetly in the still piney woods that it carried many a soldier back to his old home in far away Texas, where he had heard his mother, sister, or sweetheart sing it when all was peace and happiness in our Southland." A short time later Giles saw Stuart and his men mounting their horses. As they galloped off, he heard the general singing a line from one of his favorite tunes, "Sweet Evelina, dear Evelina, my love for you shall never, never die."

Stuart carried his penchant for song right to the very end. Just before he was mortally wounded in the Battle of Yellow Tavern in May 1864, he was at the head of his column, singing the ballad "Lorena." Even his dying request was for music—for someone to sing "Rock of Ages."

Stuart's passion for music may have been unsurpassed among Civil War generals, Peagram may have been a whistler extraordinaire, and Longstreet and company may have taken the chutzpah award, but the Confederacy had no monopoly on music-loving generals. William T. Sherman, to name one commander in blue, had a particular affinity for band music. One night in Georgia, he was warming himself by the campfire as a band played "The Blue Juanita" in the distance. For a few minutes, he lost himself in the serenade. His cigar, forgotten, burned out as he clenched it in his teeth. When the music stopped, he sent word for the band to repeat the tune. The encore performance proved even more beautiful, and when it ended, there were a few moments of silence before some soldiers a quarter-mile away began singing the song. Another band lent an accompaniment, and then another, and then another, until half the army was singing and playing "The Blue Juanita."

Union Major General Alexander McDowell McCook took a more active role in his pursuit of music, more like Stuart: he liked to sing. One evening McCook and several of Major General William S. Rosecrans's lieutenants were drinking coffee together as Rosecrans read his orders for the next day. On completion of the official business, McCook took advantage of a lull to entertain the high-ranking crowd with a personal offering of the gem of his repertoire, "The Hebrew Maiden," a plaintive love song that had been popular for many years before the war.

McCook's taste perhaps leaned to the brooding side, but his preference did not always prevail. One night in December 1862, McCook was "imbibing freely" with generals John Beatty, Lovell Harrison Rousseau, and Thomas Leonidas Crittenden near Stone's River in Tennessee. Crittenden was the most lighthearted of the foursome. The commanders wound their way back to their tents singing all the way. Crittenden wrapped up the night with "Mary Had a Little Lamb," sung in its entirety, according to one historian, "in a voice far from melodious."

Children's songs were not quite what General Robert E. Lee had in mind when he considered music. For him, the value of song went far beyond any aesthetic pleasure it gave; he realized music was critical to boosting his army's morale. At Bunker Hill, West Virginia, in July 1863, about a week after the Battle of Gettysburg, he ordered a North Carolina regimental band to come to his headquarters. The musicians ordinarily would have been delighted to receive a personal summons from him, but on this occasion they dreaded it; the Confederate army had been mangled at Gettysburg, and the musicians feared he was going to use them to fill out his depleted ranks. Lee had no intention of assigning the I men new duties. Instead, he complimented them as one of the best bands I in his whole army and asked them to I use their musical talents to lift the spirits of his depressed troops.

A YEAR LATER, IN EARLY MAY 1864, as Lee and his officers made plans to attack the Union army in the tangled Virginia forest known as the Wilderness, the North Carolina band played outside his tent. Turning from the task at hand for a moment, Lee listened attentively and then mused aloud, "I don't believe we can have an army without music." Few soldiers on either side would have disagreed.

Lee's nephew, Major General Fitzhugh Lee, shared his uncle's fondness for song, but for him music had more to do with theatrics and merrymaking. During the winter of 1863-1864, when he and his cavalrymen were not harassing Federal supply lines in Virginia's Shenandoah Valley, he was frequenting saloons in Richmond, dancing and singing "corn-shucking tunes." On one occasion in June 1864, Confederate soldier and postwar memoirist John Wise saw Lee leaving the city with his staff and remembered him as having a "merry eye" and a "joyous voice of great power."

Alas, not all generals were like the Lees, Longstreet, Stuart, or Sherman. All the way at the top of the Union chain of command was a man who did not merely dislike music, but hated it: Ulysses S. Grant, the general in chief. As a boy, Grant would walk a mile out of his way to avoid having to listen to a band. Union Major General Alfred Pleasanton, who attended West Point at the same time as Grant, recalled that his schoolmate "had no ear for music." In fact, Cadet Grant could not even tell one bugle call from another. That caused some problems for the young aspirant: bugle calls signaled such critical moments as the beginning of classes and duties. Later in life, Grant avoided regular attendance at church, apparently so he would not ha\ e to listen to the singing.

One night years later, after Grant assumed command of the Army of the Potomac in 1864, the members of the 4th U.S. Infantry band, not knowing Grant's aversion to music, decided their army commander might enjoy an evening concert. They played particularly close to his tent so he could hear the sound more clearly. Of course. Grant did not appreciate the serenade, but instead gratefully acknowledging their well-meaning gesture. Grant became irritated. “I’m noticed that band always begins its noise just about the time I am sitting down to dinner and want to talk," he said. The musicians rook the none-too-subtle hint and never played for him again.

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WAR Grant's intense dislike of music found a rival in Lieutenant General Daniel Harvey Hill. In one example of Hill's antipathy for song—and his generally grumpy demeanor—a spokesman for the 20th North Carolina Infantry's regimental band asked Hill to give his men a furlough. "Shooters before tooters" was Hill's curt reply.

Hill and Grant were aberrations among their fellow generals. Even Hill's brother-in-law, dour Thomas J. "Stonewall" Jackson, enjoyed songs—despite the fact that he was tone deaf, almost completely unable to distinguish one tune from another. As a boy he had tried to teach himself to play the fiddle, but though he practiced regularly and diligently, he failed miserably. There was one exception to his musical incapacity, however: the devout Presbyterian somehow managed to make "Amazing Grace" recognizable when he sang it.

More typical of Jackson's experience with music was a situation that occurred after he realized "Dixie" had become the Confederacy's unofficial anthem (perhaps with some debt to the tabletop serenade of Longstreet and friends?). He decided he had better learn his country's song. One day when his wife came to visit him in camp in Virginia, he asked her to sing it to him out a ad over until he could pin down the melody. She recalled that she sang and sang; it was a "tedious service." He fore long, she wrote, the scene was "perfectly ridiculous." They eventual gave up with no better outlet for their frustration than to laugh at his musical ineptness.

I here was quite a gap between Stonewall failing to grasp the melody of a simple minstrel show and generals singing opera. But the common denominator was an undisputed love or music that pervaded America, North and South, from slave to plantation owner, miner to banker, private to general. If you paid attention, as Walt Whitman wrote, you could "hear America singing"— even if it was singing off key.