by Seneca Fox
Chapter IV
12:30 pm
After talking with Ms. Thompson, Max wandered off and I started looking at her books. The racks were filled with biographies of Civil War generals and books dedicated to battles like Cold Harbor and Manassas, or campaigns like Sherman’s march. I recognized a few titles including Defending Southern Sovereignty and the Pulitzer-Prize winning Lincoln at Gettysburg. There were even Civil War dictionaries, The Complete Idiot’s Guide to the Civil War, and some academic titles like The Impact of Industrialization on the Pre-Civil War South. But some titles were strange; I couldn’t help but notice Confederates in the Attic: Dispatches from the Unfinished Civil War. This book featured on its cover a particularly angry looking soldier with matted curly dark hair and a beard, dressed in a plaid shirt, wearing a big bow tie and holding a knife. The photo was extraordinarily odd looking and I didn’t know what to make of it. I couldn’t tell if it was authentic or not. Numerous other books seemed to question history: among them were titles like Facts Historians Leave Out: A Confederate Primer and What They Didn’t Teach You About the Civil War. A few titles seemed intent on inciting an emotional response: some of these included The South Was Right, Southern Invincibility and The Southern Nation: The New Rise of the Old South. At first I was surprised that most of the books seemed to emphasize the South. Upon reconsideration, however, it seemed understandable since most of the war was fought in the South, and I was standing in the midst of a reenactment on Southern soil.
Positioned between the books was a rack of pamphlets. A sign across the top of the rack read “Civil War Bulletins”. A small label marked “$1.95 ea.” was stuck to the corner of the sign. I scanned the titles and one, Rebel Yell, A Yankee’s Hell, caught my eye.
I picked up the pamphlet and began to read. “Nothing could send chills up the spine of a Yankee soldier quicker than a chorus of spirited Rebels whooping and hollering. Historians contend that the psychological impact a ‘Rebel Yell’ had on the Yanks was comparable to the impact that American soldiers had on the North Vietnamese when they flew over in their helicopters playing rock music at deafening volumes.”
“Historians,” I snorted and read on. In brief, the author cited a few examples of how a “destitute band of ragtag Southern soldiers” relentlessly used the famous “Rebel Yell” to send superior numbers of better equipped Union soldiers into retreat. In the concluding paragraph the author’s obvious intent was revealed when he made a plea for remembering the “spirit and fortitude embodied in the Rebel Yell. Use the fearsome battle cry with certainty and conviction. The Rebel Yell is an important part of your Confederate heritage.” I closed the pamphlet and looked at the back cover. At the bottom, centered on the page were the words “Published by the Association for Southern Heritage”.
I stood there dumbfounded. I looked up to view the entire scene again and started to recall my own heritage. I was a Southerner, born in Charleston, South Carolina. When I was eight my family moved to Tidewater, Virginia. My father grew up close to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, and his family had been there since the beginning of the nineteenth century. No doubt some of my father’s ancestors served in the Civil War – perhaps even lost their lives. My mother was born in Virginia and most of her relatives lived there.
In the third grade in South Carolina public schools we were taught a simplified history of the Civil War. Topics included Fort Sumter, the Battery, the Citadel and paragraph-long biographies of the better-known generals of the Confederate army. We also viewed the Confederate battle flag, sometimes called the Southern Cross, as something to be revered. Although there were none in my parents’ house, in the homes of some of my neighbors there were pictures of Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson and Jeb Stuart hanging above the mantels. Typically a miniature American flag sat on one end of the mantel and was balanced on the other end by some type of Confederate flag.
It wasn’t until I was an adult that I started to wonder why there was such an emphasis on the Civil War in third-grade South Carolina history, or why neighbors hung pictures of Confederate generals on their walls and sometimes had Civil War shrines in their homes. I wondered if these “impressions” were simply an expression of respect for ancestral sacrifice or a sign of some seldom talked about, but always present, feelings of a history that turned out different than many people might have liked.
I’d never thought much about Civil War reenactments. I was aware that they existed and I sensed that they were becoming more popular. The truth, I guess, is that I hadn’t really cared. But some of what I saw in the sutler’s bookstore suddenly made me wonder about the intentions of those who participated in reenactments. I was reluctant to assume that they were the brainchild of some radical group. I reasoned that my judgment was correct because this reenactment and, according what Max and Ms. Thompson had said, others were held on well-known battlefields where anyone with enough interest could see them. They were “open to the public” and it was the transparent nature of these events that suggested that there was nothing sinister about them. And so I stood there, filled with uncertainty, wondering again if Max was right. Perhaps we should have stayed on top of that ridge and watched from afar.
I had my back turned, but could tell that Max was walking up behind me. He was whistling again. He has a funny way of whistling. He doesn’t purse his lips like most people; instead, he parts his lips slightly and blows air across his teeth. An interesting thing about his technique is that others often have a difficult time telling that he is the one whistling – he reminds me of a ventriloquist. The quality of his sound is good. He has as much range and control as anyone.
As he approached, I turned and interrupted his tune. He pointed to the bulletin in my hand and asked, “What’s that?”
“Oh, nothing,” I said and dropped the bulletin back in its slot in the rack. “Hey Max, I want to spend the night here.”
Max groaned. “Haven’t you seen enough?”
“No.”
While Max considered my suggestion that we stay the night, I found a brochure detailing the “Battle of Clear Creek.” As a gesture of gratefulness for Ms. Thompson’s kindness, I purchased the brochure. Max agreed to stay, and we set up our tents in the wooded area across the road from the sutlers’ village.