McMansionizing History

But the coalition's efforts had transformed the political climate. That fall, the voters filled a vacant seat on the Board of Supervisors with a candidate endorsed by the slow-growth forces: Robert Hagan got 64 percent of the vote. In January, when they had to fill a vacancy on the board, the supervisors selected Hap Connors, one of the coalition leaders. Then, in March 2003, as hundreds of county residents sat watching, the increasingly nervous supervisors voted 6 to 0 to reject the Dogwood proposal. The revolution peaked on Election Day 2003, when five pro-preservation candidates were elected supervisors, giving the movement control of the board.

The trust found a local homebuilder, Tricord Inc., that was willing to deal. In 2005, according to the trust, Tricord purchased 227 acres of the Dogwood property for more than $12 million and immediately transferred the 140 most important acres to Lighthizer's group for $3 million. In return, the coalition forces and the supervisors agreed to let the builder put higher-density housing on the remaining 87 acres. In late 2006, the supervisors unanimously approved a second deal, along the same lines, with another builder, Toll Brothers. That $1 million sale, which closed this year, gave the trust another critical 74 acres of the battlefield.

"We don't fool ourselves that the average American is a Civil War buff," says Lighthizer. "But we do know they are tired of traffic, of congestion, of homes going up everywhere."

The trust's political muscle yielded further dividends. When the last major undeveloped tract at Fredericksburg -- Slaughter Pen Farm -- went on the market in 2006, Lighthizer was alerted by his friends at Tricord, who agreed to move quickly and buy the land, then flip it without profit to the trust. The $12.5 million price tag made the 208-acre deal his organization's most ambitious and expensive purchase yet, but Lighthizer was willing to borrow to buy such a crucial piece of land. It is the only place on the battlefield where a visitor can follow in the footsteps of the Union assault from start to finish, now that land to the north and south has been developed.

Another coup occurred in 2006, when the trust rescued the 319-acre heart of another endangered tract -- the Glendale Battlefield in Henrico County, Va. -- for $4.1 million.

It was in the last days of summer in 2006, amid that string of triumphs at work, that Jim Lighthizer lost another of his three sons.

Conor Lighthizer, 28, died during a camping trip with his father high in California's Sierra Nevada mountains. Free from the demands of politics, and seared by Robert's suicide, Lighthizer had worked at spending more time with his four remaining children. During the years of late-night campaign banquets and budget sessions, weekend bull roasts and wining and dining lawmakers, "I didn't ignore my children," he says, "but if I knew -- if I was as mature as I am now -- I would have spent more time with them." The camping trips were one of his ways of compensating for that lost time.

Conor suffered from juvenile diabetes but worked hard to keep himself in shape. He had completed a marathon that year. But illness or altitude triggered a diabetes-related condition called ketoacidosis at the end of a long climb. Conor lost strength, his sight and then consciousness at their alpine campsite. A helicopter came too late to save him.

"Conor died in my arms," Lighthizer says, recounting the story in his office at the trust. His face is suddenly distorted; he is chagrined by an involuntary sob and apologizes, needlessly. "How close to the surface the emotions are," he says, startled and marveling.

Grief can be relentless. It strips from us our distractions -- ambition, creativity, desire -- and their power to charm. We confront the great lie of life, and if we are fortunate, we fall on the crumbs of a cause for which to soldier on.

"You go on because you have no choice," Lighthizer says. "You try to help the other people who are hurting, and not spend a lot of time on yourself."

But some friends wonder if, as the battle between preservation and development comes to a fierce conclusion in the next few years, Lighthizer will be able to recapture the verve and vigor he displayed in the last decade.

In 1889, an old soldier named Joshua Chamberlain returned to Gettysburg for the dedication of a monument to the 20th Maine Regiment, which he commanded during the battle. Chamberlain is one of the heroes in "The Killer Angels." He and his raw farm boys and fishermen were posted at the far end of the Union line, on the slope of a rocky height called Little Round Top, when the Confederates launched their attack. If the soldiers from Maine had given way, the federal line may well have collapsed. They knew that, and fought with fury. When they ran out of ammunition, they threw rocks and, at Chamberlain's order, charged down the hill with bayonets, stunning the rebels and saving the hill.

On the day he returned to Gettysburg, Chamberlain spoke of the wisdom of saving battlefields. "In great deeds, something abides," he said. "On great fields, something stays. Forms change and pass. Bodies disappear, but spirits linger." Future generations, he predicted, "shall come to this deathless field. And lo! The shadow of a mighty presence shall wrap them in its bosom, and the power of the vision pass into their souls." It did for Michael and Jeff Shaara. It has for Jim Lighthizer, who dreams of raising $250 million -- twice what he has spent so far -- to preserve another 25,000 acres of Civil War history in the next eight years. "I could spend, conservatively in the next five years, $30-to-$50 million to save land just in Spotsylvania County," he says. At Chancellorsville, one-fourth of the core battlefield and less than one-tenth of the total ground has been protected. "Give me $10 million, and I will spend it at a fair market value to save that battlefield," Lighthizer vows.

The 150th anniversary of the start of the Civil War is approaching, but federal and state plans for the 2011 Sesquicentennial are modest. None calls for the kind of investment that Lighthizer and other preservationists believe is needed to protect the places where so many died. Meanwhile, time is running out. Soon, given the pace of development in America, there likely will be no more Glendales or Slaughter Pen Farms to rescue.

"We are trying to get as much as we can done," Lighthizer says, "knowing we are not going to get most of it done." It's a glorious cause, he worries, that may be doomed to come up short.

John A. Farrell is the author of a biography of the late House Speaker Tip O'Neill and a forthcoming biography of Clarence Darrow. He lives in Montgomery County and can be reached at jaloysius1@gmail.com.