Those Who Have Borne the Battle by James Wright

invaluable.” The editor insisted that this example, if followed, would “soon wipe from the page of history one of the foulest charges against republics—that of ingratitude to their best benefactors.” Nations who “honour the fallen and perpetuate the memory and achievements of the valiant will never want heroes to fight their battles.” 16 But it would take another war to finally pull all of these themes into the dominant public history and memory.
    During the Mexican War (1846–1848) the government continued to distinguish between regulars and militia, yet this distinction was less clear in the public mind. The two different forces, different institutions, merged in the telling as the “citizen soldiers” of democracy’s wars. Historian Robert Johannsen concludes, “It was the image of the citizen soldier, the individual who turned from peaceful civilian pursuits to the defense of his country, that captivated the popular mind and confirmed the nation’s republican mission.” There continued to be tension between volunteers and regulars, but praise for “the military achievements in Mexico” did not distinguish between them. “The victories belonged solely to neither group, and the more perceptive observers saw the results as an example of democracy’s ability to coordinate regulars and volunteers in a single cause.” 17
    A new spirit of nationalism marked the Mexican War. Johannsen describes the symbols of this sense of national identity that were widely embraced, for the first time so comprehensively, such as the American flag, along with what he called the “national airs”—music such as “Yankee Doodle,” “Hail Columbia,” and, to a lesser extent, “The Star-Spangled Banner,” as well as the symbolic American eagle. These things tangibly represented a sense of nationhood and, perhaps implicitly, now a proud continental empire. These unifying symbols and this confident mood
“lent impetus to the patriotism of both the soldiers in Mexico and those who remained behind.” 18
    This new narrative, weaving together military service and its sacrifice with the values of democracy, a proud legacy, and unwavering confidence, was fully set by the 1850s. Yet during that very decade, the narrative would falter and be insufficient to summon national unity. Slavery and its political tensions would overcome this sense of shared history and common values. The hypocrisy of democratic rhetoric and the acceptances of human slavery became heavier. In the Civil War, the narrative would be tested in some difficult and emotional ways.
    Â 
    Â 
    On March 4, 1861, Abraham Lincoln assumed the presidency of a nation now fully splintered as a consequence of Southern reaction to his election. In his inaugural address, he embraced the interpretation of the country’s shared and proud history, tying patriotism to military sacrifice as both a unifying appeal to the seceding South and, as necessary, a call to the Northern states to be prepared to affirm their responsibility for the dearly bought heritage of the Republic: “Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.”
    The national narrative had by 1861 incorporated fully and warmly this mystic memory of citizen soldiers defending the land. The narrative encompassed fundamental principles believed to be, perhaps uniquely, American: avoiding large military establishments, depending upon the commitment of the citizens to protect the Republic in which they had a stake, and insisting that the United States was a peaceful nation—but one that could mobilize quickly for war and engage