The Appalachian Chronicles: Shades of Gray

by Seneca Fox

  Chapter XVII

  8:30 pm

  My trip to the Union camp was nearly cut short by my own concern that I was dressed in a Confederate uniform. I felt awkward enough walking around in the strange world of reenactors, but walking into a camp where I would have so clearly been out of place was more than I cared to endure. I stood outside the Union camp watching men sitting around a large campfire, apparently enjoying the same kind of camaraderie that others were enjoying in the opposing camp. I felt empty standing there alone in the dark, as though the Union “cause” was too far removed from this old Virginia battlefield to have any relevance to the preponderance of Southern reenactors gathered here.

  “What’s up, hardcore – afraid somebody might shoot you?” I turned and saw Reg and Darin walking toward me. I smiled. “It doesn’t matter. The ones that would get bent out of shape won’t talk to you anyway, not when you’re dressed like that.” Reg tapped me on the shoulder, motioned with his head and said, “Come with us.”

  I followed Reg and Darin into the Union camp. They led me to a spot where a group of five other men were already seated around a fire.

  “Reg, Darin,” said one of the men. “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is hardcore, AKA Ian.”

  “What’s up hardcore?” asked the same man.

  “Not much,” I said.

  Reg introduced the men sitting around the fire starting with the man who spoke when we walked up, “That’s Gilbert, to his left is Art, and that’s Brian – where the heck you been, Brian?”

  “Couldn’t get back here any sooner, man.”

  “Old lady again?”

  “You know it.”

  Reg pointed to the other two men in the group, “And let’s not forget the honorable doctors, James Wells and Isaac Noble.”

  Isaac tossed a stick in the fire and narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked at me. “Nice to meet you,” he said. James smiled and nodded.

  Brian was the only man, other than Reg and Darin, dressed in a Union uniform. The others wore civilian attire – I couldn’t tell if it was authentic or not. We sat down and stretched out our legs and placed our feet only inches from the fire. Brian, Art and Gilbert appeared to be younger than I. James was about the same age and Isaac was much older. Isaac sat straight with his shoulders pulled back; the hair on the sides of his head was white and his hairline had receded well beyond his forehead, almost friar-like. His skin was smooth, except for the wrinkles around his eyes. I was still studying the details of his face when one of the other men said, “That’s a wicked beard, man.”

  “So I’ve been told,” I said distractedly.

  “Darin and I found Ian listening to Dexter talk about Daddy Roe.”

  “You poor man,” said Brian.

  “Come on now – don’t get down on Dex,” replied Reg.

  Brian nodded. “Yes, Reg, Dex is all right.” Then he gently poked Gilbert in the arm and asked. “You got any more of that jerky?”

  “Yeah, you want some?”

  “That’s good stuff.”

  “How about you, hardcore?” asked Gilbert. “Brian says you can’t be a real hardcore unless you eat some jerky.”

  “Just had some.” I answered. What was it about jerky?

  Gilbert tossed me a piece. “Now you’re authentic,” he said.

  Reg continued telling the others about me. “As I was about to say, this is Ian’s first reenactment, and tonight he’s making the rounds.”

  Isaac looked at me and said, “Why on earth would you want to get involved in reenacting?”

  “To be completely honest, my brother and I are hiking the Appalachian Trail. We were up on the ridge this morning when we heard the cannons. I guess I couldn’t resist coming down to find out what all the fuss was about.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Reg.

  “Sorry about that,” I replied. “It didn’t seem so important.”

  “It tells us why you’re here,” said Isaac.

  “I guess it does,” I replied.

  “So where’d you get that uniform?” asked Brian.

  “Well, as improbable as it seems, this battlefield is owned by someone I know.”

  “Foxharte?” asked Brian.

  “Yes, you know him?”

  “No,” he said, “I know of him.”

  Brian asked in a tone that defied seriousness, “You out here spying for Foxharte?”

  “No,” I said and I looked into the eyes of each of the men sitting around the campfire; I wanted to make sure I had their attention. Then I smiled and said, “I’m spying for his daughter.”

  “Oh yes, I’ve seen her,” said Brian. “Fine.”

  “Very fine,” I added.

  “Tough luck for you, Brian,” said Reg. “Sounds like she’s into hardcores.”

  “No competition here,” Brian mused. “As long as he does it right – spying that is.”

  Everyone laughed before Isaac spoke up. “So tell us Ian, what have you learned today?”

  “It’s not what I might have expected.”

  “Might have expected?”

  “Prior to coming here I hadn’t really thought much about reenactments, but if I had, I think I would have expected it to be different.”

  “How’s that?”

  “For one thing, I would never have guessed I’d be sitting around a campfire talking with a group of men, most of whom are black.”

  Issac cut in, “Does seem strange, doesn’t it? Men like us sitting around this campfire.” He looked at me as if he was waiting for an answer. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I shrugged my shoulders and he continued, “We have our reasons for being here. Take my colleague here, Dr. Wells, he’s a historian. He specializes in living history. He’s here to assess reenacting as living history. As for me, I arranged this little outing through my nephew.” Isaac motioned toward Reg. “I’m a sociologist, and though I find the idea of reenacting odd, I thought it would be interesting to talk to some reenactors. Nothing major, just a glimpse of what it means to them. Pilot work.” Isaac lifted his hand and pointed to the remaining men as he said their names, “Gilbert is Dr. Wells’ graduate student and Art’s with me. It doesn’t matter if they want to be here, we didn’t give them a choice. As for Brian, well – Brian, why are you here?”

  “Darin’s old lady sent me here to keep an eye on him.”

  “Leave my old lady out of this. She’s home, I’m here and that’s fine with me.”

  “That settles it,” Isaac deadpanned, “Brian’s here to keep an eye on Darin.”

  The idea of living history intrigued me, so I looked at James and asked, “Living history?”

  James spoke for the first time. “Living history involves immersing people into a particular environment that approximates history. Perhaps you’ve seen the PBS special, Frontier House.”

  “You mean like the one where the couples and, I think, even a family lived like western pioneers?” I asked.

  “Yes,” James answered.

  “So this qualifies as living history?”

  “It depends on one’s definition of living history. In my opinion, it’s a poor approximation of history,” replied James. “There are essential elements missing. However, if you consider this as recreational living history and not a serious academic endeavor then it doesn’t matter much.”

  “I see,” I said, hoping to hear more. But before I could ask James what was missing, the others began to ask me questions. For several minutes they drilled me, asking questions ranging from where I was from and where I went to school to what I did for a living. Like other people, they seemed to be most interested in asking me questions about hiking the Appalachian Trail. None of them seemed to grasp the concept of why someone would want to intentionally endure the rigors of a more than two-thousand-mile hike. In my estimation, they were being more honest with themselves than the many people who often respond with remarks like “I want to do that someday,” when they first learn that you are hiking
, or have hiked, the Appalachian Trial.

  When the pauses between the answers and the questions became prolonged, Reg said, “So hardcore, you still wondering what we’re doing here?”

  “Well,” I started, “not so much why some of you are here, but it still seems strange that black men would participate in a Civil War reenactment.”

  “Do you imply that some of us are here for reasons other than what we have stated?” asked Isaac.

  Isaac’s defensive tone made me a bit uneasy, but I answered him honestly. “Oh no, I have no reason to doubt what you have told me; but if I hadn’t met Reg and Darin, I’m sure that when I left here and looked back on all this, I might have seen reenacting as an attempt to keep alive some kind of, of outdated, or narrow-minded ideal.”

  “And you would have been right,” said Isaac. “That’s exactly what it is for some people.”

  “But,” I explained, “I haven’t seen any of that here, at least not in any obvious way.”

  Reg pointed toward the Confederate camp and spoke out, “Like I said before, it’s over there inside that circle of tents.”

  “I’m sure you realize that this outdated, narrow-minded ideal, as you call it, continues to exist,” said Isaac. “In fact, it is far more widespread than many people want to admit. I don’t have to tell anyone here that all kinds of people will hold on tight” – Isaac made a fist – “to a ‘cause’, if I may borrow the expression. It’s the same for whites, blacks, Jews, Muslims, the good ole boys, the rich, the privileged, those that want to be privileged, the kid that gets the last swing on the swing set and the kid that wants it, you name it. It’s an old problem, as old as mankind, I’m sure. It’s in our genes; we have to protect our own best interest; it’s key to our survival.” Isaac sighed and rolled his eyes. “But I digress,” he said. “So – back to my point.

  “Your perceptions are accurate. We are concerned about that so-called ideal. That’s precisely why some of us are here. After making our observations, we may even want to provide some commentary about what all this represents – then again we may not. No matter what we decide to do, we know enough to know that we can’t change things overnight and we do try to address our concerns in a positive way.” Isaac pointed to Reg and Darin. “When it comes to reenacting, they do it by studying their heritage – their ancestors that were involved in the Civil War. Then they come here steeped in that heritage and to share it with others. Maybe they even hope their efforts will somehow add to a mutual respect between black and white reenactors. A few black reenactors have gone as far as suggesting that these battlefields might be a place where old wounds can heal.” Isaac raised an eyebrow and said, “I don’t agree with that assessment, but I appreciate the attitude.”

  Isaac pointed to James. “We come here to study others thinking that maybe someday we can make more sense of what it is about events like these that attracts people and bonds them together.” Isaac paused and held everyone’s attention by taking a deep breath. Then he added, “And one more thing, the past has taught me that if don’t work hard to counter oppressive forces, I will be oppressed. So part of the job that needs to be done here,” he said as he looked at Reg, “is to keep the record straight.” Isaac stopped talking and stirred the fire.

  Still curious about James’s comment suggesting that Civil War reenactments lacked some “essential elements”, I spoke up, “What you said about keeping the record straight makes me wonder about this idea of authenticity. I get the impression that the so-called hardcores are pretty authentic, but,” I asked, “is this authentic?”

  “You mean the reenactment?” queried James.

  I got the impression that he was the kind of man that wanted to be certain that he clearly understood a question before he gave an answer. “Yes,” I replied.

  “No,” said James, “as I said before, there too many important elements missing.”

  “Like what?”

  “You hardly ever see African-Americans participating in the activities on the Confederate side. Of course, it’s not hard to understand why they don’t, but the lack of an African-American presence undermines the claim of ‘authenticity’. Also, reenactments generally take place over a weekend. Life is much different when you have to endure conditions like these for weeks and months. It’s like me hiking and camping for a few days and nights and then saying I understand what it’s like to the hike the Appalachian Trail. Would you agree?” I nodded and was flattered by the suggestion that thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail qualified as an “authentic” experience. As a final thought, James added, “Most importantly, there is no specter of death that haunts war reenactments. A man who, day after day, is faced with the reality of death lives in a very different world than one for whom death is something far more abstract.”

  Gilbert, who had been sitting and rubbing his chin, interrupted. “You know, Dr. Wells, that’s an interesting point.”

  “What point?” asked Reg. “You want someone to die?”

  “No, no. But maybe we’ve got the wrong idea about all of this.”

  “All of what?”

  “Keeping the record straight,” said Gilbert. “All I see is black men that come out here and participate as Union reenactors. We all know that during the war many blacks were forced into service on the Confederate side. But what do you see when you look over there? All you see is a bunch of white guys. No blacks cooking, mending uniforms, shoeing horses or cleaning muskets. None of that.”

  Art spoke out. “What are you talking about Gilbert? You’re crazy. I don’t know one black man, or woman, who would do that.”

  “There are a few,” said Reg.

  “Like that dude marching around on Memorial Avenue carrying a Confederate flag and talking about sovereignty,” said Brian.

  “What dude?” asked Reg.

  “He was there when they unveiled the statue of Lincoln and his boy,” answered Brian. “I saw it on the news. Somebody must have paid him. Made a fool out of him; he looked like a minstrel. Anyway, I don’t know him, I don’t know anyone like him and I don’t want to.”

  “Think about it,” Gilbert said as he tried to recapture everyone’s attention. “What would the neo-Confederates do if African Americans asked to participate as cooks and servants and blacksmiths? What if we played the part to perfection – in the name of authenticity? Holding our hats in both hands and looking down all the time, saying ‘Yassir’ and ‘No massa, not me, massa, Gilbert, sir, he…’ Well…” He paused. “Now what do you think those neo-Confederates would do if that happened?”

  “You mean white supremacists,” said Reg.

  “White supremacists, neo-Confederates, they’re all the same – just different shades of gray,” reacted Gilbert.

  “But they’re not, at least not all of them. Some neo-Confederates would be incensed by your suggestion that they are also white supremacists.”

  “Awe, come on, Reg. Tell us what you really think. You’re talking to a brother here, not a group of white guys dressed in gray uniforms.”

  “Look Gilbert, what you’re saying is often true. I’m not one that is big on neo-Confederacy, but I recognize that there are some who would stand up against racism and simultaneously argue that the Civil War was about defending the right of self-government, not slavery.” Gilbert tried to interrupt, but Reg held up his hand and continued. “Someone like that might be considered a neo-Confederate. A white supremacist on the other hand is, as the name implies, a racist.”

  Impatiently, Gilbert said, “There can’t be many that are one thing but not the other.”

  Isaac interjected, “And to think that some believe old wounds can be healed at Civil War reenactments.”

  The men fell silent. The only sounds were the crackle and hiss of the fire. I looked down and recalled the story Ben told me about his distant uncle, Jedediah Powell. Jedediah’s actions, first freeing the slaves he inherited and later dying as a Confederate soldier in the Civil War, were consistent with the kind of neo-Confederates
that Reg seemed to be defending. I was thinking that maybe Reg was right; maybe some neo-Confederates were not racists.

  I was lost in these thoughts when I heard someone in the group quietly singing “Coming forth to carry me home.” When I looked up, I realized that I’d been humming the same tune. Brian smiled at me and said, “I love that song. My grandmother used to sing it all the time.” He turned away and grabbed a single piece of wood that was lying on the ground behind him. He placed it on the fire and stirred the embers. The flames enveloped the fresh firewood.

  Art, who was apparently still considering Gilbert’s comments about the absence of authenticity at reenactments, laughed quietly and then spoke out. “In – the – name – of – authenticity. I like it, Gilbert. I like the irony.”

  “I can see the headline,” added Reg, “Neo-Confederates give up reenacting – complain of too much authenticity.”

  As we laughed, Isaac looked at me and smiled.

  “So have we offended you yet, Ian?” asked Reg.

  “I don’t know much about neo-Confederates,” I answered, “and I know more than I’d like about white supremacy.”

  “White supremacist,” mused Art. “You know, I don’t get it. Whites have been in charge of things for a long time. Now you tell me, if they’re so damned supreme, then why is this country in such bad shape? Here we live in the richest nation on the planet and still thirty percent of black children are born to single mothers that are poor, uneducated and often addicted to drugs. Born into abject poverty – what kind of chance do they have?” Art pointed toward the Confederate camp. “Think of all the talent over there. Some of them well educated men with advanced degrees, degrees in law and political science, and yet they come out here to ‘celebrate’ the lives of dead men when they could be working to improve the lives of the living.” Reg and Darin glanced at each other, but neither one spoke. “Part of me wishes that I’d never come here.” Art paused before he concluded, “Like I said, if whites are so damned supreme then why is this world in such bad shape?”

  “Good question,” said Gilbert. “Let’s face it. Ian’s right to wonder why we are here. There are many things that bother me about the enduring enthusiasm for the Civil War. Take the slogan, ‘Heritage, not hate.’ When I hear that all I can think about is that someone doesn’t have to hate African Americans to think they are better than African Americans.”

  “You mean to be a white supremacist,” added Art.

  “What?” Gilbert asked.

  “Someone doesn’t have to hate African Americans to be a white supremacist,” Art answered.

  “Yes, exactly,” replied Gilbert. “And, when I see that flag hanging on a pole in someone’s yard or a sticker in the window of a pick-up truck, I’m not sure what I’m looking at. I mean, how am I to know what the person that put it there is saying. You can bet that at least some people put them there because they hate me, and for nothing more than the color of my skin.

  “Oh, they’d argue that this is a free country,” continued Gilbert. “And they’re right and thank God they are; but, whether you think freedom is an inalienable right or just a benefit of living in a democratic society, those who understand freedom best, use it most responsibly. I can’t see how many people in this country can appreciate freedom, and the responsibility that comes with it, more than African Americans.

  “If some redneck puts a Confederate flag sticker in his truck window without thinking about how it makes other’s feel – that’s insensitive. If he puts it there to anger someone, or worse – threaten them – that’s an abuse of freedom. But how is one to know why people do these things. Man,” Gilbert shook his head, “I can’t stand to think how the one’s that do hate us seem to thrive on the uncertainty.”

  “Look, Gilbert,” said Reg, “don’t get the wrong idea. You’re right; it’s no secret that there are a lot of hard feelings still floating around between the races. And, you’re right to think that some people don’t care while others seem to enjoy making things worse. But any hard feelings I’ve come by while reenacting are nothing compared to the hard feelings I’ve come by elsewhere. I have to admit that I don’t interact much with reenactors outside the Union camp, but my friends are, well – they’re my friends.”

  “It’s good to hear you say that,” said Isaac. “In my generation, one might have white friends despite being black; but in your generation, color seems to be much less important.”

  “Amen.”

  Brian turned to me and said, “Ian, is this why people hike the Appalachian Trail?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, to get away from all the bullshit,” he replied.

  I nodded and said, “Some of them, yes.”

  “It seems these men are sorting out some issues,” said Isaac. “Now, do you have any more questions?” he asked. I assumed that he was implying that it was my questions that prompted the spirited dialogue.

  I thought for a second and realized that there was another question that I would like to ask. “Lincoln,” I said.

  The men looked at each other and suddenly erupted into a mixture of expletives and laughter.

  “What’d I say?”

  “Lincoln,” said Reg as he spat involuntarily and wiped his arm on his sleeve. His shoulders shook and he waved his hands, gesturing for me to be patient while he regained his composure.

  “What’s so funny about Lincoln?”

  “It’s just, it’s just –” Reg cleared his throat. “Last night, we –” he took a deep breath – “we had this great debate about Lincoln. We almost had a fight. We don’t all agree.” Reg cleared his throat again. “Actually, it wasn’t that bad, but it was rather heated.”

  “What did you decide?”

  “We didn’t, but I’ll give you the extremes. On the one hand, one of us thinks Mr. Lincoln was a racist; on the other hand one of us thinks that he was another Moses; the rest believe the truth is somewhere in between.”

  “So?” I said making it clear that I wanted to hear more.

  “Lincoln didn’t want to free anyone – you can’t compare him to Moses,” said Art.

  “Man, you refuse to put this thing in its proper context,” Gilbert responded. “Yes, I know, originally he was only interested in stopping the spread of slavery and he considered starting a new country for former slaves after emancipation – God knows we heard that enough last night. Sure, he thought Negroes were inferior to whites; but in his day there were very, very few whites that didn’t think the same way. By today’s standards he was racist. But when you put it in the context of his own time, the man – well, let’s just say he evolved.

  “Did you know that while he was President he used to sit at the foot of his bed for hours with his long-ass legs pulled up under his chin? Now what do you suppose he was thinking about – hosing some pretty presidential aide? We all know he only had one thing on his mind – the war. His actions, like emancipation, and his words, like his second inaugural, especially when compared to his first, tell us that there was a lot of good working in that man. Have you even read his second inaugural?”

  No one was surprised when Gilbert began quoting Lincoln’s words, “‘if God wills that it continue…until every drop of blood drawn with the lash, shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as it was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said ‘the judgements of the Lord, are true and righteous altogether.’ Now tell me Art, who do you think that man was working for?”

  “Ah … a white supremacist maybe. They like to quote scripture.”

  “Hell, Art, Moses was ill-tempered, he was a murderer, and God had to set a bush on fire without letting the flames consume it before he saw the light. And yet, regardless of all his flaws and reluctance, he did a rather admirable job of freeing the Hebrews from bondage. If you believe that Moses was doing God’s work, then why can’t you believe that Lincoln was doing the same? Look, Art, I’m so convinced that I’m right that I’ll make you a bet.”

&nbs
p; “What kind of bet?”

  “Five thousand years from now Moses and Lincoln will both be portrayed as great deliverers in some kind of new bible.”

  “Go on man, you’re crazy!”

  “One day, Art,” said Isaac, “you’ll learn not to argue history with a historian.”

  Reg leaned over to me and whispered, “Had to ask about Lincoln, didn’t you?”

  Sometime later, when the intensity of the conversation waned, Isaac looked at his watch and said, “My good men, it’s time for this aging warrior to go to bed. I have a long day before me tomorrow.” He stood up. “Ian,” he said, “it’s been a pleasure.”

  I stood to shake his hand and said, “Dr. Noble, I wish we had more time to talk.”

  “Oh, it’s pretty simple for me,” he said. “I used to get fired up like these young men. I did my share of marching and protesting. Somewhere along the way I learned that it’s not so much about blacks and whites. It’s more about people having enough individual freedom and control over their own lives to live according to their own desires – all within reason of course. As an African American, I feel like I’ve been on the short end of the stick for much of my life. I have to acknowledge that life for some blacks has gotten better, but there’s still much work to be done. My hope is that one day a black man or woman can talk about important issues and no one will notice the color of his skin.”

  I nodded and was about to speak, but Isaac continued. “Oh yes,” he said. “Sometimes what I hear while sitting around this campfire makes me think we’re not so different.”

  “We?” I asked.

  “White reenactors and my people.”

  “Seriously?” I said.

  “Yes,” said Isaac. “Think about it. What some of the most devoted reenactors value is their own family history – their heritage. How’s that any different than an African-American who spends endless hours tracking down bits and pieces of information about his or her ancestors? Somehow it seems unfair to the reenactor who’s primarily interested in heritage when he is accused of being a white supremacists. Brian, no, it was Gilbert who said it best – there are different shades of gray.”

  I looked at Reg. He flashed a smile and winked. Then I looked back at Isaac. “Nice to me you,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he replied. “Make sure you don’t get eaten by a bear, or bit by a snake or something.” Isaac feigned a shudder; then he smiled and gave a little wave to everyone seated around the fire.