Category Archives: Echoes from Our Past (American Civil War)

Echoes from Our Past #3: Life is Good Today

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In his book Confederates in the Attic, Tony Horwitz writes about a group of reenactors who strive to experience a period rush.  I think there is a fair amount of truth in his description, but I would define it differently.  I define a period rush as: when all elements become aligned and the reenactor becomes immersed in the period and for a fleeting moment, touches the distant past.  There is great deal of truth to the period rush.  They do happen, but they are rare.  The following is from a reenactment of the Battle of McDowell that occurred in 1862, but the reenactment took place in 2001.

The last three days were very tough; two nights sleeping on the ground in the open with several miles of marching and combat on Saturday and Sunday.  We arrived in McDowell on Friday and made our camp for the night.  On Saturday, I stupidly volunteered for duty with Provost Guard.  There was really no choice in the matter because one from our company was going.  I spent day listening to the citizens of McDowell complain about stolen chickens, ruined property and various other transgressions of their lives by Yankee soldiers.

Of all the moments I had at McDowell, the best was not a period rush, but one that exists just between the folds of 1862 and the 2001.  After the common meal on Saturday, we had a little time to ourselves before forming for our march up the mountain.  I took my cup of tea over by the church and sat down by the rail fence facing the road. As I sat there, a neatly dressed man in his 60s wandered up to the edge of the fence and was photographing the soldiers sharing a meal together in the churchyard.  He spied me from about forty feet away and slowly walked toward me.  When he got close, he shyly asked “Kin ah take yoa pichure?” I said of course he could.  He took the photo and said thank you.

He started to step away, then turned and asked, “are you a friend of Christ?”  Sort of surprised, I said yes.  He then said “Guess that makes us brothers then.”  I replied it does.  After a moment he said quietly, motioning to the gathered soldiers, “I guess a lot of those boys who fought here back in the war were our brothers too.”  I knew he could see it.  I stood up and introduced myself, as did he.  He went on to tell me how he had lost his wife three years earlier.  Every Sunday they would drive the fifteen miles into McDowell to attend the Presbyterian Church.  They never missed a Sunday.  We talked for awhile and he counseled me that home and family were the most important things in life.

We ended the conversation with a nod and he walked slowly back to his Lincoln parked down the road and drove away.  The old man was able to make the connection of common elements, faith in his case, between us and the boys of 186 and felt comfortable enough to express that to a total stranger.  His eyes had been opened to something that had never struck him before.

Late Saturday afternoon orders came down that we were to march into the foothills of Allegheny Mountains and take up positions for the night.  We marched out of town and soon were lost in the fields in the foothills without a single modern intrusion.  Men marched in heavy marching order (packs and bedrolls for those of you who forget your history).  When we took a rest during the march, I turned to look back at the column of blue stopped on the road.  There was a long row of stacked arms as the troops rested on the sides of the road.  Smoke drifted up from the occasional cigar and pipe.  We took the usual insults of “go home you dirty Yankees” from people passing by as we left town.  Now that the area around McDowell had been fully occupied by the Federal Army, the local residents did not take kindly to the intrusion today and yesterday.  Some things never change.

When we arrived at our camp for the night, we immediately put our attention to finding a place to sleep as it looked like it was going to rain.  Soon a dark, drenching thunderstorm was passing overhead reminding us that the men of the 19th century stood out in the rain more often than not.  In typical military fashion just when we had decided on our shelter spot, orders came down that we may be breaking camp and moving to the top of a big hill.  It was almost dark and the hill was about a mile away.  Our leaders were concerned about reports that a Rebel column was expected to come over the hill that evening or next morning.  I personally was not looking forward to marching up the hill in the rain only to be attacked by Stonewall Jackson sometime in the darkness.  We put our gear back on, stood around for awhile and then the damn officers finally made a decision to move our company down the road where there was another path to the top of the hill that the Rebels were supposedly coming over.  We camped on the side of the road and just as we finished building a shelter along a stacked rail fence – the rain stopped.

We slept out in the open that night along side a flowing stream.  No cooking fires were allowed as the officers we concerned we might be too close to the Rebel column that was coming over the hill.  Most men were too tired to eat and wrapped themselves in their gum blankets and fell asleep.  We had to put pickets out all night, but not me as I had been on Provost Guard duty during the day.  We rose well before the dawn and quickly assembled into heavy marching order as we expected a Confederate attack at dawn.  I was pleased to see the pickets on duty in the distance.  Once assembled our group was placed up the road on picket duty.  We watched the Yankee army march from where we spent the night to the first campsite that we occupied for 15 minutes the night before.  Once by us, they stopped down the road and lit cooking fires for breakfast.  It is a rare sight to see men dressed in 19th century clothing break ranks and forage wood for fires.  Soon whiffs of smoke were drifting in the breeze and the smell of bacon and coffee enlivened the morning air.  Our company was on picket duty and we were pushed further away from the main body.  Four of us were placed high on a hillside near a great tree, which I figured was old enough to have seen the war.

We had a commanding view of the valley and the opposing hillside.  The land was mainly pasture with the occasional cattle gazing about and clumps of woods here and there.  If this was really 1982, those would be dead cattle.  It was cold enough in the morning that we decided to put on our great coats.  This is when the first period rush occurred.  My pards were eating a cold breakfast when I said to them “the breeze almost makes it cold enough for great coats.”  My friend replied “I know its cold enough for great coats.”  We then unrolled our great coats from our packs.  In nearly ten years of reenacting, I have never put my great coat on in the field – only at night or in the morning around camp.  To have our packs against the tree, seated with our great coats on in a stiff breeze with a commanding view was special.  Not a single contemporary intrusion marred our senses.  After about two hours and countless jokes about how the Rebels were “not coming this day” I thought I heard the command “halt” given in the distance.  The wind was in our face and it carried sounds quite well – but nothing revealed itself to the eye.

Below me on the road between the hills, I could see the men of our force snoozing and eating breakfast.  Suddenly, high on the opposing hill side I spotted a solitary figure.  This then became two companies of Rebels in skirmish line moving down the hill at a deliberate pace.  A single horseman moved back and forth across the ridge as the skirmishers moved down the hill towards our position.  After the skirmishers had progressed a few hundred yards down the hill, two columns of Rebels came over the hill moving quite quickly.  It was an awe inspiring sight.  We sat and watched the spectacle for some time.  It was an absolutely precious moment.  The Rebel commander brought his troops down the hill in fantastic order.

Within an hour of first sighting of the enemy, the skirmishers were engaged.  When the main rebel column assembled on the road they had to dispatch a company of men to deal with us as we were shooting at them.  I must state at this time we waited too long before we moved away from our position and when a full battalion is on the road, a single infantry company cannot hold them back.  There is power behind a mass column of infantry.  Napoleon knew this.  Thus our company was easily swept down the road and four of us were captured.

We learned the Rebels had been on the march since 4:30am and thus their commander was pacing the army with frequent rest stops.  Men were really falling out from fatigue.  The four of us where then paroled and told to pass between the lines.  When we reached the Yankee line (about a mile away) there was a lead company holding the line while the rest of the troops rested in the fields that we had passed the day before.  We reported to the Yankee commander by order of the Adjutant giving him all the intelligence we could and we also learned that our names had been entered into the official dispatch of our Company Commander for our bravery and sacrifice.  Since we were paroled, we were told to take a bunch of Rebel prisoners back to McDowell at the bayonet so the reserve company could join the battle line.

When we caught up to the group of prisoners, their dumb sergeant claimed that they were not prisoners, but really “malingers, miscreants and invalids.”  In fact, he called them an Invalid Company who had spent the night in a barn unable to march with the rebel column.  Thus ended our weekend marauding the village of McDowell in the Rebel south.

/wrk

Echoes from Our Past #2: The Long Tail

. Creativity, Echoes from Our Past (American Civil War), Uncategorized . Leave a comment

As with my first post about Antietam and the Vacant Chair, I have started to weave some creative writing into my technology and business focused blog.  If it is not for you, please disregard.  I am writing this post from the reading room in the Norman Williams library in Woodstock Vermont, which was built in 1883.  Outside the leaves are in full color and on the town green is chile cook off contest.  More than a decade ago, I started writing a book on my experiences reenacting the American Civil War.  I was motivated to write it because I had read Confederates in the Attic.  I knew some of those people in that book and had been at the same places.  Writing a book requires time and concentration.  Over the years I have found that I am productive in writing short stories, hence the blog.  As I dig stuff out of my unfinished draft called Echoes from Our Past, I am going to post them here.  Maybe someday they will grow into longer manuscript.

It is June 17, 2001 and I am traveling from my home in Boston to San Francisco for business. I travel frequently for business; sometimes making more then 150 flights a year. The travel can be tedious, but the time on the airplane affords me a chance to write and contemplate. Much of the time I have had to write was found on airplanes. I have had many of my best creative thoughts while gazing out over the horizon and watching America roll by beneath me. I am presently over the Rocky Mountains. The last wisps of snow dot the high recesses of the peaks. Puffy clouds float below me as if they were dabs of cotton caught in the wind.

It is just past Memorial Day and I am reading a June copy of U.S. News and World Report. There is a small article of towards to the middle of the magazine. It is so small that it is easily missed. The article and chart discuss the cost of our nation’s wars. A small picture accompanies the article. I am drawn to this picture. As I examine the picture, I realize that it is a picture of a Confederate soldier. At first, I thought it was a mistake. I dismiss the picture to an error in editing. Someone decided that the article on the cost of our nation’s wars should include a picture of a soldier. I concluded that the person assembling the article was ignorant of their history and had simply chosen a random file photo of a soldier. The fact that the soldier was from a war that ended one hundred and thirty-six years ago did not occur to this person. Historical and factual accuracy have never stopped the media from filling their pages – why should it now?

After examining the picture and noting the uniform as any reenactor would, I take the time to read the chart. The first line on the chart states that the government of the United States of America is paying benefits to thirteen dependents from the American Civil War. I am paralyzed in my seat. How could this be? This is a mistake. It is not possible. It is 2001. A new millennium has dawned for our great country. Over the past few months, our national media has been filled with stories about the passing of the Second World War generation. Some 13,000 of these great men and women are passing away each day. Our government has just decided to spend millions creating a monument to their deeds in Washington. The government has even stated that they are going to fast track the construction with the hope of having it completed before we lose many more of the generation. A great and powerful UNITED States of America that put a man on the moon in 1969, some thirty-two years ago – has still have not finished paying the dependents from those who fought in the American Civil War, a war that occurred in the 1860s – not the 1960s.

This is why the Civil War lives in our national consciousness. We cannot escape the occasional reference to it. When my father was born in 1931, there were still veterans from the Civil War alive. To think that my father could have spoken with a man who served with Lee or Hancock or Grant or Longstreet personalizes the Civil War. The Civil War is not destined to the pages of history, it closer then I ever thought. These connections to our past enable the past to come alive for us. I was born well after the last Civil War veteran passed away, but father was not. I live in a new millennium, in an America that the veterans of the Civil War could hardly imagine; yet, the last fleeting dependents from that generation are writing their final words on their shaping of America. Their book is not yet complete and as they draw their final words on our country’s pages, I wonder where they are. Are they in homes or hospitals? Do people visit them or care for then? Has someone taken the time to record his or her story? I hope that they are comfortable and know that someone cares. This is why the Civil War is important – because somewhere outside my 757 is living connection to that time and I care, only wishing I could know their secrets.

/wrk

Echoes from Our Past #1: Antietam and the Vacant Chair

. Echoes from Our Past (American Civil War), History, Non-Work Related . Leave a comment

The inspiration for this post came during an early morning ride to the airport.  I was flying to the west coast and on the way to the airport I was listening to an article on NPR about the 150th anniversary of the Battle of Antietam.  When I was younger, I spent a decade reenacting the American Civil War on the weekends.  I caught the 130-140th cycle, I was a man in the ranks in a handful of movies and productions.  Over the past decade, family and work have taken then toll on my free time.  I am not complaining; I just miss the diversion.  I travel a lot, I blog, I email, I tweet, I am constantly on the go for work.

When the 150th cycle started last year, I was conscious of the start, but it is only recently I have realized what I have been missing.  I was flying last week and listening to Knee Deep by the Zac Brown Band.  The part of the song that begins “Going to put the world away for a minute and pretend I don’t live in it.”  That is the part I am referring to.  The diversion of reenacting and the desire to drink from the well.  Let me explain.

Antietam is important event in my family.  My 7th great grandfather (picture to the left) was captured at Harper’s Ferry in the opening phase of the Antietam campaign.  He was paroled in time to make Gettysburg, stand just to the right of the copse of trees to receive the Confederate charge on the third day and a few months later take a mini ball in the left knee at Bristoe Station.  He is buried at Alexandria National Cemetery.  His picture hangs in the visitor’s center at Gettysburg.

When I was at my fourth startup, I once took the leadership and sales teams to Antietam for the day.  I have been there many times.  It is a compact site and the undulanting nature of the terrain has never been adequately described by any book I have read on the battle.  If you want to know the battle, you need to walk the field, just like the men on that day.  Read the books and then walk the field.  If you know the battle and walk the site, you walk with the men on that day.   What follows is something I wrote nearly a decade ago and never published:

As reenactors, we begin our journey of enlightenment by reading historical accounts of the Civil War.  For the truly passionate student of history, the passages we cherish are not enough and we find our way to reenacting.  The siren’s call is too great and like Odysseus, we willing guide ourselves into the world of antiquarianism seeking inclusion.  This is where we discover the well of understanding; a well that quenches our thirst for only but a fleeting moment.  Reenacting is seeking enlightenment through the antiquarian experience.  History is far more than a collection of dates, places and people – it is a collection of experiences, achievements, sacrifices and expressions.  History is details.  History is tragic.  History is our lineage.  Reenacting provides a well of experiences and details that foster a stronger, personal understanding of our past.  As your understanding of the Civil War grows through reenacting, your thirst to drink from the well becomes stronger.  The well provides insights to you that pass by others like a summer breeze.

As a reenactor, you can stand on the fields of Antietam and feel the pain in your feet when you think of A.P. Hill’s Brigade in 1862.  You can feel how the packs and bedrolls can bite into a man’s shoulder on a long march.  You shift your weapon from shoulder to shoulder.  You know what it is like to peel the hot, wet wool from your body after marching in the Virginia sun for several hours.  When you drive through a small New England town and stop for coffee, you spy a monument in a forgotten corner of the town center.  To the average American, the monument is clutter left from a prior generation – but to you it is something important, something to be cherished.  You feel a need to greet the monument.

You cross the street and take the time to walk over and read the monument.  Others look at you as if you are lost.  The names leap off the granite: Cedar Creek, Five Forks, Cold Harbor, Gains Mill and Second Manassas.  As a reenactor, you know the ground.  You have stood in the rifle pits at Cold Harbor.  These are not words from a generation long departed – they are a collection of experiences from the well.  You dip into the well and the experiences wash over you.  You remove your hat.  Perhaps you wipe your brow. You can hear the sounds of the muskets, the roar of the cannons and the stress of the engagement.  Orders are given “load,” “ prepare to fire,” “aim,” “fire!”  You can feel the ripping, tearing vibration of the volley.  You know the difference between fire from a skirmish line and fire from regiment in line.  The smoke fills your head and teases the senses.  You feel a tingling sensation as you can see the battle flags on both sides.  You know these flags as you can see them waving defiantly in the breeze above the men.  You can see the First National Flag of the Confederacy.  Flags from Hood, Kershaw, Hill, Armistead and Cleburne fill your view.  Here stand the men from the South; men from Charleston, Georgia, North Carolina and Virginia.  Ghost brigades that once marched proudly to the call of their cause.

In the distance, you can see the Stars and Strips standing vigilantly in defense of her cause.  Brigades under the command of men named Sherman, Sheridan and Hancock.  You can see the men.  You know the uniforms.  You can see the long blue line filled with men from Pennsylvania, New York, New England, Ohio and beyond.  For a moment, you are with the men from the monument.  In the briefest of time, you join them.  They welcome you with nods of acceptance and respect. Then it ends.  The memories from the well pass.  You see the cars passing by and realize that it is time to leave.  You sip at your coffee; perhaps you offer a short prayer and return to your car.  As you drive down the road, you thirst to drink from the well once again.  Your passions are rekindled.  This is what reenacting provides.  Reenacting is a spiritual journey that can only be experienced by the individual, in the surroundings of many in pursuit of fleeting moment from our past.

I often tell people if you want to understand America, read about our Civil War.  The good and the bad of our culture is embedded in these four years.  Read the really good words.  Read Chamberlain, Catton and Foote.  I would even tell you to start with the Killer Angels.  I have reenacted on both sides the Civil War.  That is how I know how embedded the history is in our culture.  My great grandfather wore blue, but I am comfortable in gray.  My wife’s family wore gray.  When I was young, I would go visit my grandmother in upstate New York.  There was a tree I would pass on every visit called the scythe tree in Waterloo NY.  In 1861 James Johnson hung his scythe on the crotch of a small cottonwood tree and said to leave it there till he returns from war.  It is still there.  I think this tree might be the place I first became aware of the Civil War.

Over the past decade I have repressed many of reenacting urges.  It is easy to think the road trip is too long.  There are too many things to do around the house.  There are football games to watch and family affairs to attend to, but I can never escape our history.  It surprises me on a Monday morning in the hour before dawn.  After I cleared security and was sitting at the gate, it occurred how to me how comfortable I was.  I had my coffee, my iPhone and all I had to do this day was fly to SFO, respond to some emails and attend a cocktail reception.  150 years ago the men who awoke around Antietam had a much different day ahead of them.  That is what annoys me about the Civil War.  It tugs at me when I am not expecting it.  If you have ever been to Gettysburg on July 2, then you know as you walk the line of the 20th Maine or on July 3 as you stand in the woods where Pickett’s men stood staring across the Emmitsburg Pike.  If you have every stood in the fields and woods around Shiloh in the early morning hours of April 6, you will realize you are not alone and that we cannot escape our past.  As I finish writing this post, I raise a glass of whiskey to those who have gone before the and the vacant chair.

/wrk