

### The Appalachian Chronicles:

### Shades of Gray

### Seneca Fox

### copyright 2003 by Seneca Fox

### Published by Seneca Fox at Smashwords

### The Appalachian Chronicles:

### Shades of Gray

copyright 2003 by Seneca Fox

revised and rededicated 2015 by Seneca Fox

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously unless otherwise specified.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedicated to my brother. (2003)

Rededicated to my brother,

Brittany and James. (2015)

Contents

Prologue

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Recommended Reading
Prologue

My brother Max and I are beginning our third month of hiking the Appalachian Trail. This is the first thru-hike attempt for Max and the second for me. The beginning was difficult, given that Max weighed far more than he should have when we started. In fact, his urgent need for a change in lifestyle is part of what prompted our attempt.

Max is a recovering electronic-media junkie, just one among the millions of people who have become an unintended consequence of shortsighted ingenuity and affluence. He exhibited all the classic signs, including endless hours in front of a fifteen-hundred-dollar, forty-two-inch wide-screen television that featured three hundred and seventy-two satellite channels, a theater surround-sound system and some kind of computer-interfaced box with an uncountable number of games. He also owned a computer that was complete with Internet access, multiple e-mail addresses, instant messaging, nobody knows how many hand-held video games, and a comfortable couch fronted by a coffee table that was decorated with five remote controls and a continuously refreshed supply of potato chips, sugar-coated nuts and other not-so-nutritious snacks. Like an addict needing more opium to dull his senses, he groped for ever-increasing amounts of electronic stimulation and demonstrated great creativity in the avoidance of physical activity. Given the state of Max's health and my history as an exercise enthusiast, I would have forever suffered from a do-gooder, guilty conscience if I didn't try to help him. So here we are, almost nine weeks into a six-month anti-merchandising march to unheralded glory.

In our first seven weeks we experienced enough challenges to make even the most trail-hardened hiker give up. Only days after our adventure began, Max fell on an icy slope, crashed into a tree and suffered a deep bruise on his hip. He was painfully sore, but after two days rest he managed to limp along at a five mile-per-day pace for a while. Unfortunately, that was about a third of what we needed to average to make it all the way to Katahdin, Maine before early September.

Hiking through North Carolina and Tennessee took us longer than expected. Some days we experienced a few thousand feet of elevation change, spending nearly all our time going up and down.

I don't know which is harder – up or down. Going up with a thirty-five-pound pack on your back is a fast way to breathlessness. There's an instrument called the Borg scale, which uses numbers ranging from six to twenty to represent the difficulty of one's physical exertion. An effort equal to a six is about the same as Max experienced while watching his fourth episode of "All in the Family" during a rerun marathon on Tuesday evenings. In my profession we sometimes joke with our clients, especially women, that an effort of twenty is comparable to having a baby. Of course, we we're just trying to make a point, and somehow I don't think exercise effort compares well with labor pains, but clients get the picture. When you're hiking uphill with thirty-five pounds strapped to your back, you can walk very slowly and still work at a solid sixteen or seventeen on the Borg scale. There are a lot of "catch-your-breath" pauses when you're climbing a mountain.

Hiking down a mountain is in some ways worse. Going down would quickly get out of control if it weren't for the braking action of your thigh muscles. At first it doesn't seem so bad, like a nice reprieve from climbing. Then with each step down, over and over again, thigh muscles with Latin names like rectus femoris and vastus lateralis suffer minute tissue damage. The accumulated trauma eventually makes your legs feel like they've been pounded with a meat tenderizer. Mercifully, with a little rest, the sensation dissipates after a few days.

The stretch from Erwin to Damascus was tough enough on me, but I'll never understand how Max did it. He's got the heart of a lion and I think, with good fortune, we're going to finish.

A real turning point for us came while we were hiking along the border of Southwest Virginia and West Virginia. The portion of the trail that runs through Virginia constitutes about one quarter of the total distance – more than any other state. Hiking through Virginia is regarded by many thru-hikers as a highlight – a mixture of modest grade changes and shady trails interspersed with views of the beautiful Shenandoah Valley. The day we entered the state, however, it was cold and dreary. Rain fell for six days straight and Max and I were on the brink of giving up. If it hadn't been for a fellow from West Virginia who picked us up at a trailhead and took us home with him for a few days, we probably would have given up.

The last week or so has been good for hiking. The sun has shone bright each day while temperatures ranged from fifty to sixty degrees. Nighttime temperatures have been no lower than thirty-five. We've walked through the Catawba Valley, close to Roanoke, and now we are north of Lynchburg.

I have important memories of this region of the Virginia Mountains. Known as a good place to hunt deer, black bear and wild turkey, several families from my hometown had once owned or rented cabins in the region. In the summertime, the same families would "head for the hills" to escape the oppressive heat and humidity of eastern Virginia. As a young boy, I was fortunate enough to spend some time here with a friend named Carter. His parents owned a cabin on Jennings Creek. On several occasions, typically in the summer, I was invited to spend a week with Carter and his family at the cabin. Those were good times – the long days roaming through the woods and swimming in the creek, the lazy afternoons that ended with mad dashes across the yard to catch fireflies and nights spent telling ghost stories and playing childish pranks on one another. During the dry summers, when the creek was running low we would dam it up, raising the water level enough to create a shallow pool. If we were lucky, we might even corner a lonely trout and spend the afternoon feeding it insects.

Besides the still lingering feeling of great freedom, there are two things I remember most about those visits to Jennings Creek. The first was my introduction to the Appalachian Trail – it happened one afternoon when Carter and I set out to discover the source of Jennings Creek. We'd been hiking upstream for about an hour when we encountered a man sitting next to the creek with his bare feet dangling in the water. A large, heavy-looking backpack, hiking stick and his socks and shoes were setting on the bank next to him. Carter and I were still young and uninhibited enough to approach the man without any reservations. When we asked him where he was going, he said, "Maine." Well, you can imagine how the minds of two preadolescents were energized by the thought of someone hiking "hundreds of thousands of miles" from Virginia to Maine. The man became an instant hero whom we assumed must be some unknown descendant of Meriwether Lewis or William Clark. Immediately, we peppered the weary thru-hiker with questions – all of which he graciously answered. When we finally released him to his journey we returned to the cabin, vowing every step of the way to one-day hike the Appalachian Trail. Ten years later, we did.

The second thing I remember most about the summer days at Jennings Creek began one morning when Carter and I were exploring the woods after a terrible storm passed through the night before. Thinking back, I now believe that a twister accompanied that storm because there was a clear path through a section of the woods where a number of tall oaks, some of them four feet in diameter, had fallen. Carter's father explained that those trees would have normally withstood the high winds, but on this occasion the ground was saturated from weeks of rain. Standing on the trunk of one of the fallen oaks I was amazed that a tree so big could be so easily toppled and a new understanding of the powerful forces of nature moved me. Unfortunately, when we returned the next year the fallen trees were gone; in fact, most of the woods that we enjoyed exploring were gone – clear-cut by a logging company. Carter and I were devastated when we realized that our summers at Jennings Creek would never be the same. It was a coming of age experience that we felt was forced upon us. That night we took an old white pillowcase and painted a picture of the earth on the center of it. The next day we climbed onto the roof of the cabin and attached our homemade flag to the television antenna. A few days later we left Jennings Creek for the last time.

Many years have passed since those cherished summers. Even so, this part of the Virginia Mountains, as you will soon discover, continues to influence my life in important ways. The story that I'm about to tell begins just a few miles from the Jennings Creek area, near a place called Thunder Hill.
Chapter I

May 26th

9:30 am

Half-listening to Max whistle, I sat checking mileage estimates for our next week of hiking. He slowly circled his cup above the few remaining embers of our fire, while I tried to make out his tune. The song sounded as if it was an octave too low and each note was drawn-out, perhaps, an extra eighth or quarter. I couldn't tell if the tune was meant to be a soothing one, like the sound of a parent softly singing a child to sleep; or, if it was a lonely message to someone who had been lost long ago. The truth is I couldn't tell if his song had any intent at all, but I could see as he gazed into the fire that there _was_ something longing in his eyes.

When clipping along the trail at an energetic pace, Max typically whistles classic sounds from the 60's and early 70's. Nearly a half-generation younger, I prefer the sounds of the late 70's and 80's. While Max saunters along whistling "No Where Man", I'm often pounding the trail a few hundred yards ahead and breathlessly singing "Running on Empty." On a rare occasion we might find common ground in a tune like "Let it Be" or "Stairway to Heaven". Somewhere along the way, though, a subtle change had come over Max. It was as if the many long, and sometimes lonely, days on the trail had allowed something from his past, something repressed, to creep back to the edge of his consciousness. And, for the last few weeks, at the beginning and end of each day, especially when he sat alone engaged in mindless activity, his repertoire was more spiritual.

He swirled his cup again and I listened carefully. He was whistling "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." I wanted to ask him why he had chosen that tune, but I felt that any inquiry would be a rude intrusion, so I was content to wait, believing that in time the answer would be revealed.

Suddenly stopping in the middle of his song, Max gave me a distracted look. "Where do we go today?" he asked.

"Matt's Creek Shelter."

"How far?" Max learned weeks ago that each day's destination was chosen in part to maintain a minimum daily mileage. Today's distance was average, and the hike was mostly downhill.

"It's a little over twelve miles and three thousand feet net change in elevation. _Minus_ three thousand feet," I emphasized.

"Three thousand," he said, sounding a bit more cheerful. "Sounds like my kind of day."

A slight breeze was blowing from the northwest. The cool temperature and the clear horizon promised a good day for hiking. I looked at Max and drawled, "Yeah. Looks perfect to me."

Max began to swirl his cup over the fire again and he asked, "Matt's Creek. Who do you suppose Matt was – or is?"

I folded the waterproof trail chart and slipped it into my pack and considered Max's question. I often wondered who or what the various landmarks along the trail were named after. I knew the significance of some names – like the nearby Spyglass Hill, where Confederate sentries kept a lookout for Union troops that marauded up-and-down the Shenandoah Valley during the Civil War. But there were many others – lonely places named after people like Tinker or Campbell. These names, I realized, represented a piece of history. A creek first used by a man named Tinker to meet a basic need for water; or, perhaps, a shelter bearing the name Campbell, after an almost forgotten soldier who died for his country. There were hundreds of these creeks, cliffs, and shelters along the Appalachian Trail, but I knew little about their history and even less about people they honored. I was contemplating my previous lack of curiosity when a loud sound ripped through our tranquil morning ritual.

KABOOM, BOOM, booM, ooMm, omm!

Max jumped up and asked, "What was that?"

"I don't know – thunder?"

"Don't think so," Max said as he looked overhead.

KABOOM, BOOM, booM, ooMm, omm!

"Man!" I exclaimed.

"Explosives. A quarry, maybe?"

I looked at Max and said, "Come on, let's climb up there." I pointed to a nearby ridge and began to run. Max poured out his coffee and followed. The ridge was probably a hundred feet up, steepest near the top, and there was a side-trail with several switchbacks.

"Sounded like a cannon. What do you think it is?" I shouted.

"I don't know," Max hollered. We took a shortcut across the first two switchbacks; but the hill was too steep to shortcut the others.

_KABOOM, BOOM, booM, ooMm, omm!_ I stopped to listen to the sound echo through the mountains.

We ran as hard as we could. Max and I were panting. My legs and lungs burned, and the loose soil and rocks sliding out from under my feet slowed me down. I wanted to ease up, but I lifted my knees and pumped my arms. I was three-quarters of the way up the side trail and Max was not far behind.

KABOOM, BOOM, booM, ooMm, omm!

Rounding the final switchback, I looked out over the horizon. In the distance I could see the peak called Sharp Top, but couldn't see anything that would account for the thundering sound. I stopped running and began to walk. Gasping for air and disoriented, I tried to determine precisely what direction the sound was coming from.

When I crested the ridge and looked across the wide valley I saw multiple lines of people below. Some were wearing what I presumed were uniforms with dark shirts or jackets and blue trousers. Others wore lighter uniforms. There were lines on either side of the field facing each other. A few of the men were scattered behind what appeared to be an embankment and others were hiding behind rocks. Beginning to realize what was happening, I held my hand above my eyes in order to focus on the flags held by each army. One appeared to be an American flag and the other was mostly red. A Confederate flag, I thought. Squinting, as the sun reflected off the many tents that were arranged in an orderly fashion at either end of the battlefield, it became clear to me that this was some kind of mock battle.

KABOOM, BOOM, booM, ooMm, omm!

Max stepped onto the top of the ridge and we watched rings of smoke rising simultaneously from three separate cannons.

"A reenactment," Max sighed. Standing half bent over, with his hands on his knees, panting, he added, "They have 'em in the Valley all the time."

Plumes of smoke rose from muskets and rifles. A few seconds later we heard the crackle of gunfire. "Why?" I asked.

"Who cares," he replied as though it was too much trouble to explain. He stepped away from the ridge.

I'm not sure why I responded to Max the way I did; maybe I didn't believe he was as disinterested as he let on. Perhaps his seeming lack of interest made me more interested – it was true that Max and I would occasionally antagonize each other, after all, we were brothers. Maybe it was something else; maybe, for reasons I could not understand, a part of me needed to investigate more closely. Perhaps I sensed that I would find some answers; like some who gives up five or six months of their life to hike the Appalachian Trail I expected to gain something from the experience. There was one thing I was certain of, however, I was eager to take a break from hiking. Thinking back to that day, I now believe it was for all of those reasons that I pointed to the valley and said, "Let's go down there."

"For what?" asked Max, although his response seemed more like a statement than a question. "I'm not going down there. We're already a week behind."

"We can go out to the road and catch a ride."

"No way," he said.

"I want to go."

"It's a waste of time."

"I'm curious," I said, aware that Max was annoyed with me. "After all, there are hundreds of people marching around down there, dressed up in Civil War uniforms, and they're shooting cannons and rifles." I added, "Aren't you curious?"

"No," Max replied flatly.

I didn't understand Max's reluctance. Although he was good about sticking with our daily plans, he always agreed with me whenever I suggested that we take a brief respite from hiking. "Look," I said, "I just want to see it for myself. That's all."

"Okay, you go. I'll be here when you get back."

"Just go for a little while," I pleaded. "Then we can catch a ride back up here – promise."

"Suit yourself."

Frustrated with Max, I began to skip down the mountain. I was moving fast and afraid that if I moved any faster I would fall, head first, onto the loose rocks and spend the rest of the morning cleaning cinders from my hands and knees. Max followed more slowly and deliberately.

Once back at the campsite, I started packing my gear.

"You really going?" Max asked when he arrived.

"Yep."

"Doesn't leave me much choice."

"Stay here. I'll be back later."

"No. I'm going," said Max.

I smiled, and we quietly finished packing our gear, as the distant thunder of the cannons echoed around the mountain walls.

"What's the name of this spot?" Max asked.

"Matt's Creek Shelter?"

"Not the shelter."

"Oh," I said. "You mean – Thunder Hill."

"Yeah," he said. "It's appropriate."

As I tied the drawstring on the top of my pack, Max stoked the gray coals from our fire; they turned red and then faded. He poured more water on the embers and they hissed as the steam floated away. Satisfied that the fire was out, he stepped on the coals and ground them into little pieces. "That okay?" he asked.

"Good enough. Let's go," I said. As we walked away from the campsite, I looked back at the spot where we had had the fire. Staring blankly at the charred remains, I recalled the image of Max, sitting there alone, swirling his cup, and whistling.

Chapter II

10:20 am

The trail split about a quarter of a mile from camp. We took the fork that led to the highway and soon heard cars passing. A few minutes later we were walking on the Blue Ridge Parkway. We began hitching for a ride, and about six cars passed before two guys in a blue, four-wheel drive pick-up truck stopped. The man on the passenger side rolled down his window. He scratched the whiskers on his unshaven face and asked, "Where ya headin?"

"We were up on the ridge and saw a reenactment going on in the valley over there." I explained and pointed in the general direction.

"That where ya wanna go?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Hop in. Going right by there."

"Thanks," I replied. Then we took off our packs, set them in the back of the truck and climbed in. Both of us sat up near the cab, Max with his back against the fender on the driver's side. I sat on the opposite side. I got comfortable and noticed Confederate battle flag stickers on either side of the back window.

The driver pulled the truck onto the highway and his passenger turned around and opened the sliding window. "Take what ya want," he said as he passed a flimsy blue bag through the window. "We got em at the over-stocked vendor of excess," he added, and he then laughed at his own clever comment. The bag was filled with oranges, apples and bananas. The passenger then handed us a couple of soft drinks and apologized for not having any beer. "We don't start drinkin till after lunch," he said. He smiled and held up a plastic soft drink bottle wrapped with a fake beer label that was intended for a twelve-ounce can. Slightly amused, I assumed that he also had a fake soda label that he wrapped around his beer.

Max looked at me and smiled. "Trail magic," he said.

I pulled an orange from the bag and handed it to Max; he took out an apple, stuck it in his pocket and handed the bag back to the passenger. "Thanks," said Max.

The passenger nodded and said, "Just knock if ya want anything else. Gotta a whole bag full of junk food, too." He smiled again and closed the window.

Max and I twisted the tops off our drinks and watched foam spray out from the beneath the cap. We motioned "cheers" to each other, lifted the bottles to our mouths and took a few gulps.

"Boy that tastes good," I said, "even if it's not beer."

Max looked at his watch. "It's still morning, what do want with a beer?"

"I don't know. Guess I shouldn't complain, though."

"Not when it's free," said Max.

"Yeah, yeah."

Max took off his jacket, balled it up and tucked it into the corner of the truck bed between the cab and the fender. He laid his head back and closed his eyes. We were rolling slowly along through the Blue Ridge Mountains. I sat there sipping my soda as muffled music played loudly inside the truck. The tune was familiar southern rock, but I could not recall the words or the artist.

A few minutes later the driver turned onto a gravel road. Max looked up, sipped his drink and laid his head back down after he realized we had turned off the parkway. We wound slowly down a steep grade as a white cloud of dust eddied out behind the truck. The road leveled a bit and the dust settled. We were beneath a canopy of hardwoods and hemlocks. The hardwoods were mostly tulip poplars and maples, with a few scattered oaks and hickories. The hemlocks, especially those with trunks more than a few inches thick, were dead or dying. Many of the smaller ones were under attack, too. I didn't know how the parasite had come to the Appalachian's, but it reminded me of the blight that had destroyed the American Chestnut, many years before I first visited the mountains.

We rounded a hairpin turn, the truck bumped a couple of times, and I heard mud splatter inside the wheel wells. Looking past Max, I saw water cascading, from side to side, down the mountain, wrapping around the surface of some rocks while splattering off of others.

"Wet weather spring?" I wondered.

I looked at the moist rocks in the cascade and the dryer ones nearby that were speckled with lichen and moss. Dead trees were lying here and there across the stones. Young ferns were growing in boggy spots along the edge of the water – the tips of their stems were still curled tight. Tiny purple violets added dabs of inviting color. The scene was framed with lush spring foliage, new shoots and youthful leaves, and illuminated by the translucent blue background of the morning sky and the occasional beam of sunlight that pierced through the trees.

These shaded nooks and crannies, sometimes called hollows, are what I like most about the mountains. I believe I could selfishly build a cabin at that spot or one like it and quietly live out the remainder of my days. When I looked at the dense foliage and cascading waters behind us, it became clear that I had grown content with the relative solitude of our journey. During our thru-hike attempt the time spent alone, whether wandering through the ever changing scenery or lying quietly at night, had enabled me to relax in a way that can only be experienced after spending weeks away from the frantic pace of modern life. As I sat reflecting, I suddenly found the prospect of encountering hundreds of people in a strange place far less appealing. For a moment, I questioned the wisdom of my insistence on taking a detour and sensed that I better understood Max's reluctance to join me.

The music from within the cab suddenly grew louder and the idyllic scene faded as we rounded a bend in the road. I recognized the tune as "Southern Man", a Neal Young classic; but before I could start silently singing along an empty plastic bottle went spinning end over end as it flew down the embankment. The music faded in proportion to the tension building in my jaw – I despise litter.

"Jerk," I said loudly, partly hoping to be heard, partly hoping not.

Max looked up. "What's that?"

At the same moment the brakes locked on the truck and the tires locked and spewed gravel across the dusty road.

Max jerked his head at me and asked, "What'd you say?"

I raised my finger to my mouth, looked into the cab and saw the driver wrestling with the gearshift. As the wheels spun and the truck began to roll backward, I heard raised voices inside the cab. The truck rolled back about fifty yards before the passenger opened the door. Over the music we heard him say, "You're a regular environmentalist, ya stupid, no count redneck. Since when de hell do you care if I throw a bottle out da winda."

"Since we're not parked in your yard. You know damn well I can't stand looking at garbage all over the place. I'm not letting you turn the Jefferson National Forest into a dump. And where do you get off calling me a redneck?"

The passenger disappeared as he worked his way back and forth down the embankment. A moment later he was trudging up the hill with his retrieved litter in hand. He tossed the bottle in the back of the truck and said, "You guys mind watchin that? My righteous friend in there, he's suddenly flicted with environmentalism."

I grunted and nodded my head.

"Says he ain't no redneck. Den what da hell is he hangin out with me for?"

When the door was closed Max and I turned away from the cab and laughed out loud.

"Where is the guardian of the beautiful mountains when you need him?" asked Max.

"Guardian of the beautiful mountains – what's that suppose to mean?"

Max grinned and said, "You'll figure it out one day."

"Trail fever, Max?"

"No."

We came to the intersection at the edge of the access road; the driver turned left and meandered down the mountain. The woods opened up into a narrow valley where we began to see cars parked on both sides of the road. We also passed several men dressed in the gray uniforms of the Confederate Army and a pair of women dressed in hoop skirts.

"This ought to be interesting," I said.

"Yeah."

"What happened to all the cannon fire?"

"Battle's over," Max replied.

Our driver found a spot along the road and parked the truck. Max and I climbed out the back, and the two guys inside the cab got out.

The driver attempted to ask us a question, but his voice was drowned-out by the roar of a fleet of approaching motorcycles. Our heads moved back and forth as we watched each one pass. American flags attached to the handlebars and the back of the lead bike fluttered in the wind. Moments later, when the sound faded, the driver of the blue truck asked, "Want to put your gear inside?"

"No thanks, we're not sticking around long," replied Max. "By the way," he added, "let us pay you for the sodas and fruit."

"No, it's on us," the driver insisted.

"Well then, thanks."

"See ya around," said the driver.

"Thanks," I said.

Chapter III

11:25 am

Max and I stood at the back of the truck and gazed at the men dressed in Confederate uniforms as they passed. One of them was wearing what I assumed was an officer's uniform. At first glance, I noticed a glossy red sash that was wrapped around his waist; then I admired the quality of the heavy looking, broad-brimmed hat – it had a gold tassel and was tilted on his head. A sword cut back and forth at his side. His trim mustache was slightly darker than his blond hair. He immediately impressed me as a person of authority, but the favorable impression disappeared when he glared back at us, placed his thumb and index finger on the brim of his hat and smirked before he said, "Gentlemen." Another reenactor acknowledged our presence with a curt nod. The smirking officer said to the others, "Did you get a whiff of that?"

"Yeah," replied one of the others.

"Come on," said the officer. "My boy's probably having a fit."

Something didn't seem quite right about a couple of the men. Their uniforms looked old and worn, and as they walked by I noticed that they were very thin, almost gaunt.

Max and I stood there in our hiking gear with our pant cuffs tucked in our boots, full backpacks topping out above our heads and our bodies reeking with the essence of sweat, campfire smoke and grime. We certainly weren't dressed for the occasion.

"How about that look?" I asked.

"The officer?" inquired Max.

"Yeah."

"He's got a superiority complex. Comes with the stripes," he added. "Superiority complex" was the term Max used to describe people who thought they were better than others.

Quickly dismissing our first encounter with reenactors, Max and I walked toward the open area ahead of us. We soon saw a gently sloping field that stretched hundreds of yards, all the way to the base of a mountain to the west. My first thought was that this spot was mercifully left behind, like an inverted peninsula, many centuries ago when the angry earth's core pushed up sharp mountain tops that had since been worn down by relentless years of wind and rain. Looking again, I saw that patches of trees and shrubs covered a fair amount of the area before us. There was a clear view from one end of the battlefield to the other and the camps of the opposing armies stood at either end. I guessed that there were thirty to forty open acres between them.

Some of the more permanent fixtures in the field included a few small groves of trees, a lone gigantic oak with branches hanging only inches above ground, several locust trees, scattered limestone outcroppings and the remnants of a stone wall that stretched across the width of the field. I'm not sure what it was, perhaps the branches of the old trees hanging over the sodden ground or the way the stone wall looked sunken into the earth, but there was something haunting about the battlefield. I shuddered when I realized that men may have died here, writhing in pain before some merciful spirit released their souls from the shattered bodies. I shuddered again when I thought that some of those souls might still be haunting this soil. Looking at the many people wandering about, I speculated that, like me, few of them understood what it meant to die on a battlefield.

The Confederate encampment was immediately in front of us; the Union encampment was partially visible on the hillside at the far end of the field. Between the two camps, in the middle of the battlefield, were the remains of the morning engagement including, to my surprise, some fallen reenactors that were waiting to be carted off on litters.

Men dressed in Confederate uniforms scurried about while others, sitting among a circle of white canvas tents, were cooking over campfires. A larger tent was positioned toward the edge of the field. The peak of its pointed roof was five feet taller than the guard standing outside. It was apparent to me that this large tent was the headquarters – I wondered who might be inside. Several horses were tied to a fence that located between the large tent and the steep slope of a nearby hill – a blacksmith was shoeing one of the horses. Orderly tripods of muskets with bayonets and a variety of other artifacts were spread out within the camp. Three cannons were positioned between fifty and a hundred yards away. Some of the Confederate reenactors wore jackets with stripes, hats and sashes, and sometimes a pistol or a knife was hanging by their side. I was again surprised to see that a few of them were gaunt and wore uniforms that looked old and worn. It almost appeared that the organizers had recruited them from a soup kitchen. A Confederate flag was vigorously flapping in the breeze at the center of the camp, inside the circle of tents.

Other participants wore civilian clothes with the addition of a soldier's jacket or hat; a few wore clothes that looked more appropriate for farming; even fewer wore formal civilian attire of the Civil War period. There were also women dressed in period clothing. They looked hot in the many layers that were often adorned with a shawl and bonnet.

Surprisingly, there were also boys and girls dressed in mid-nineteenth century clothes. One little boy with tangled golden locks dangling beneath his cap and a drum attached to a strap around his neck was marching along the back of the Confederate camp attempting to beat the drum in rhythm with his steps. The asynchronous movement between his feet and his hands were forced and unnatural. The determined look on his face made me laugh – I wanted to walk over and help him find the beat. Only yards away, leaning against a fence, were two men watching the boy. I recognized one as the officer Max and I had seen with his entourage when we first arrived at the reenactment. He was holding his hand to his head, shaking it back and forth, as if he were embarrassed by what he was watching. It seemed obvious to me that the boy was his son.

Far across the field was a scattering of blue uniforms. Most of the Union reenactors appeared to be wearing light blue trousers and dark blue jackets.

I was not surprised to see a variety of vendors in a village of their own some distance away. I later learned that these vendors were referred to as sutlers. Beyond the sutlers' village I could see modern tents, campers and RVs parked beneath the trees. In the absence of the campers, RVs, a makeshift parking lot, and spectators, the scene might well have been set in the Civil War period.

Looking back at the Confederate camp, I noticed that Max and I did fit in, in one way. Over half the reenactors had beards. I had never seen a greater assortment. There were goatees, long narrow beards, some sideburns and well-waxed handlebar mustaches. Max and I had ordinary three-month-old beards that were devoid of any special grooming. A few reenactors were wearing similar beards.

"Hungry?" I asked Max.

"Yeah."

"I'd like some of what's cooking over there." I pointed to a whole pig roasting over an open fire on the edge of the Confederate camp. Assuming that we would not likely get any, we headed for the sutlers' village. On the way we passed under the grove of tall trees where we took off our packs and set them against a tree trunk. I opened my pack and took out my wallet and we went looking for a couple of hot dogs and drinks.

"What do you think of all this?" I asked.

"Kind of weird," said Max.

"Weird?"

"Yes."

I was too excited to give Max's comment serious consideration. "A lot of people. How do you suppose they decide whether they should be Rebels or Yankees?"

In a surprisingly authoritative tone, Max replied, "It depends on a number of things."

"Like what?"

"Some decide based on where they grew up or on family history, others on personal philosophy. For some it's just a hobby and they don't care much about what side they're on – one time a Rebel, the next a Yankee."

"How do you know?"

"I gotta couple of friends at home that do this," replied Max.

"You suppose they're here?"

"No. They only go to Gettysburg or New Market. Costs a lot of money."

"How much?" I asked.

"I'm not sure, but it requires more than just buying a uniform. There's rifles, knives, tents, accessories, fees, traveling – you name it. It's like anything – to do it right you have to be willing to pay for it."

An expensive hobby, I thought. Then I said to Max, "Judging by the fences, I presume we're not welcome in the camps?"

"I don't know," he replied. "Maybe they let non-reenactors in at certain times."

"So you think we can walk though later?"

Max shrugged his shoulders.

I looked around at the different sutlers' tents. One was selling period clothes and gear, another displayed a variety of flags and a banner on which the words "Finest flags of the Confederacy" were written, and there was a tent with books and pamphlets stacked up on tables. I tapped Max on the shoulder. "I'm going over there."

We walked over and an older woman, perhaps in her sixties, approached us. As she got close, she pulled her head back slightly and raised her eyebrows. The reaction to our stench was typical and Max and I were not offended. I chuckled and apologized; then I explained that we were hiking the Appalachian Trail and that we heard cannon fire from the ridge. "We, or really, I was curious."

"I see," she replied. "Well, since you've gone to all the trouble to come, perhaps I can give you a little history." She smiled.

"That'd be great," I said.

"Good," she said. "This is the reenactment of the Battle of Clear Creek."

I looked around and didn't see any creek. But I didn't interrupt.

"In early 1865, the Union army was wrapping up a successful campaign over the mountain in the Shenandoah Valley. A battalion of Union soldiers was sent from that campaign to assist Grant in his pursuit of Lee. The battalion came across that gap in the mountain." She pointed to a low spot in the ridge where I could see one mountain in the foreground and a second one farther back. I sensed a sizable gap between the two.

"The Confederates had sentries posted all along the ridge, especially close to major towns and cities like Lynchburg and Roanoke. When the lookouts saw the Union Army approaching, they sent for help. Soldiers were sent from Lee's army and they were joined by a handful of other locals. The aim was to ambush the Yanks before they got through the gap. But the Southern boys were a little late getting here. After a brief skirmish, which they reenacted this morning, a more fierce engagement followed. The battle lasted two days before the Yanks retreated. It was later found that Grant had sent word to the commanding officer of the Union forces to turn back. His message indicated that he had Lee's army in full retreat and that surrender was imminent. A few days later," she sighed, "Lee surrendered."

"So this was one of the last battles of the Civil War," I said.

"Yes, but it was actually fought in April."

"So why not reenact it in April?"

"There are other reenactments at that time, so this one is in May."

Max spoke up, "How many died here?"

"I think the official count was twenty-six or maybe twenty-eight, I can't really remember, but it was a small number of fatalities relative to many other battles. This was, to the relief of many, the last battle for most of the soldiers who fought here."

I tried for a moment to imagine what a soldier that understood that the war was nearly over thought about as he stood facing the enemy. Under those circumstances, I wondered, what was it that motivated a man to fight? Was it dedication to a cause, or fear of the consequences of refusing to fight? Did having other battle-hardened and weary soldiers make it easier or inescapable because each soldier believed that the others fought for honor and glory and failure to do the same was unforgivable? Returning my attention to the woman, I asked, "Forgive me, but weren't there much larger battles that make for better reenactments?"

"Yes and no. The large battles take a lot of time and money to stage. The various organizations work hard to pull off reenactments like Gettysburg, Antietam and New Market. The organizers spend an entire year preparing for those events. But these smaller battles lend themselves to weekend commitments. The so called 'hardcores' sometimes like these battles better."

"Hardcores?" I echoed.

"Some reenactors are more serious about authenticity than others. They insist on coming as close to replicating the conditions of the Civil War period as they can. They go to great lengths to ensure that uniforms, camps, the battles, the way they talk, what they talk about, you name it, are consistent with the period. Some even go so far as to nearly starve to death. In fact, since this was one of the last battles of the Civil War, there were many real soldiers, especially Southern soldiers, who did almost die of starvation."

"So that explains the nearly emaciated reenactors we see walking around." I said.

"Hardcores," said the woman as she nodded her head.

I noticed customers milling around looking at books. To wrap up our conversation I asked, "So when do they start fighting again?"

She looked at her watch and said, "In about an hour."

"Thanks Ms. – " and I stuck out my hand.

The woman took my hand and said, "Thompson, Rose Thompson."

"Thanks Ms. Thompson," I said as Max smiled and nodded in appreciation.

She smiled and said, "You're welcome."
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.
Chapter V

1:20 pm

Soon after we set camp, people began to gather on a low plateau next to the battlefield. Max and I walked toward the sutlers' village, bought a couple of soft drinks, and headed for the spectators' area. The viewing area was ideal, positioned high enough to look down on the entire battlefield, yet not so high or far away that we would miss any details of the battle.

The first sign of action came when a Union reenactor mounted on horseback trotted to a high plateau behind the Union camp. Another reenactor pulled out a field telescope and looked toward the Confederates. A bugle sounded on the Union side, and reenactors gathered into five separate lines at the border of their camp. The Union colors were displayed at one end of the front line.

Reenactors stirred within the Confederate camp. A group of thirty or so Rebels crouched down and ran, with muskets in hand, along the far edge of the battlefield toward an outcropping of rocks and bushes. Some of them took position behind the rocks, others either lay on the ground or hid under the scattered brush, while the rest gathered in three lines in front of the camp. When the lines of the two opposing forces were in place, field officers began barking orders to their men. It was impossible to make out what the officers were saying, but it was apparent that they were imploring their men toward battle. The roll of drums started and reenactors marched forward. The front lines, perhaps forty men or more, from each army stepped in unison onto the battlefield. When these men had marched twenty or so paces, the second line followed and the maneuver was repeated until each line of men was marching.

Max tapped on my arm and pointed toward the battlefield. "Over there," he said. Sitting tall on a horse that was positioned well behind the lines of Confederate reenactors was the blond officer Max and I had seen when we first arrived. The red sash alone was enough to get the attention of onlookers, but the way he sat – with his sword in his right hand and holding his head high as if sneering at the crowd – made him stand out.

Looking again toward the Union side, I saw a group of black reenactors marching together along the front line. One of them carried the Union flag. The others marched with their rifles propped against their shoulders.

The crowd of spectators, many dressed in period clothing, buzzed with anticipation. Most of them stood with their hands shading their eyes from the bright daylight, perhaps looking at a father or son. Others watched through binoculars. Some were standing in small groups talking among themselves as they watched the reenactors slowly close in on each other.

"Looks real, doesn't it?" Max said to me.

"Too real."

The reenactors steadily moved forward as the sound of the drum matched the rhythm of their march. Closer and closer they came, until finally a man dressed as a Confederate field officer commanded his troops to halt. A Union officer followed with a similar command. The opposing armies stood with their front-line troops situated little more than fifty yards apart, separated by the rubble of the old stone wall that offered no advantage to either. Following more commands from the officers, the reenactors on the front lines kneeled and set their rifles against their shoulders, aiming the barrels at the opposition. I stood there amazed at the insanity of it all. How could a man take position, in an open field, only a few yards away from an opposing army? No wonder so many died, I thought.

KABOOM, KABOOM, KABOOM!

Max and I jumped at the sound. A collective gasp came from the spectators and seconds later a first explosion occurred across the field near the rock outcroppings where the Confederate sharpshooters had taken position. Almost instantly there was a second explosion, then a third, each closer to the rocks than the one before. A single reenactor shrieked and flung himself to the ground.

"Fire!"

I wasn't sure where the command came from, but instantly reenactors from both sides fired. As scores of guns crackled simultaneously, smoke lifted into the air. A few men on the front lines fell while those in the second rows aimed their rifles and muskets. Another command was given and the reenactors fired again – a few more men fell. After a volley from the third row, a small group of Confederates positioned in front of the black reenactors jumped to their feet, held out their muskets and ran forward. I was relieved to see that they did not have bayonets. As the Rebel reenactors charged, their Union counterparts fired repeatedly, feverishly working the levers on their rifles, one man fell as though shot, but he quickly jumped up and resumed his charge. When the small band of Rebels reached the black troops, they were swinging and poking their muskets. A moment later, the Rebels, two of the black Union reenactors and a few others dropped their weapons and began to engage in hand-to-hand combat.

Elsewhere on the battlefield gunfire continued, accompanied by occasional casualties and a slowly spreading cloud of blue smoke. The air was thick with the smell of burnt cordite. Cannon fire, at times, overpowered the scene and shook the ground while flag bearers held their colors high. In the heat of the battle, officers rode back and forth behind the lines shouting at their troops. The most noticeable was the sneering Confederate officer who wielded his glinting sword above his head. When his horse reared slightly, the scene looked like something from an overly dramatic painting.

Looking again at the black Yankees and their Rebel counterparts engaged in hand-to-hand combat, I wondered if the two groups of men were really fighting. They were punching and wrestling and throwing each other about, but as they continued it became obvious that no one was getting hurt. Each time a man was knocked down or thrown to the ground he would jump up again and reengage his opponent. At times it seemed that they might even be laughing.

"That's the hand-to-hand combat guys – the Virginia 1202nd," a young boy shouted.

In response to the boy's remark, Max and I looked blankly at each other, but we were too fascinated by the battle to speak. At times, the fighting seemed realistic, but it also seemed that there were fewer casualties than one would expect with soldiers fighting so close to each other.

The battle progressed without either side appearing to gain an advantage. We watched cannon fire break apart the back line of reenactors from each of the armies. There were several charges from the Union army, several more distinct volleys of rifle fire scattered amid the seeming chaos, and more hand-to-hand combat on the edge of the battlefield.

Suddenly, in a surprise maneuver, the remaining lines of Confederate reenactors, the sharpshooters from the far side of the battlefield and a small number of cavalry from the Confederate camp simultaneously closed in on the Union army. Union soldiers began to break ranks and retreat to their camp. Men dressed in Confederate uniforms pursued relentlessly, all the while shouting and screaming with rage – the Rebel Yell. When a Union officer grabbed his army's battle flag and waved it toward his camp the remaining reenactors joined the retreat. At first a few Confederates pursued, but they stopped and returned to their ranks when a field officer repeatedly fired his pistol in the air. The commander of the Confederate troops mercilessly kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse and rode forward toward his men. He shouted, but I could not hear his words.

After a few stray shots the fighting stopped. Almost immediately a deployment of Confederate reenactors returned to the field under a white flag to gather their casualties. Max and I counted six dead and eight wounded Rebels – some wearing clothes partially saturated with fake blood. When the Confederates left the field, the Union reenactors came out for their own post-battle collection of casualties. We counted ten dead and eight wounded Union reenactors.

"Looks like the Rebs got the best of that one," said Max.

"How about that charge?"

"Pretty realistic, but there weren't enough guys dying."

"That's what I thought."

The spectators around us began to leave the hill and Max asked, "You suppose that's it?"

"I guess so."

"What do we do now?"

I shrugged. We turned and started walking back toward the wooded area where our tents were set up. The images of what I had just seen were fresh in my mind. Evidently, Max was having a similar experience; "I can't get over that charge," he said.

"Did you see those guys fighting hand to hand?"

"Yeah," replied Max. "And the cannon fire and the explosions. It's amazing how good they time everything."

"It scared me the first time they fired the cannons. Boom, boom, boom and then three explosions afterward, in perfect sequence. Awesome, simply awesome. At first it was hard to believe that no one was dying out there."

"That charge at the end," Max repeated.

Like a couple of tall-tale savvy kids, we went on and on, all the way back to our campsite, repeating the details of what we'd just seen. With each retelling, our description became slightly more exaggerated, slightly more satisfying, until we had fixed mental images that matched our emotions. We both understood that our particular version of what we had just seen would be retold to thru-hiking, strangers sitting around distant campfires. We would have been richly satisfied had our detour ended there.
Chapter VI

:25 or :26 to 4:00

Max and I were sitting around a small fire we had built at our campsite. We both enjoyed campfires, but at the end of most days were we typically too tired to make one. That _is_ unfortunate. Making a fire fits well with the preconceived ideals of the typical would-be thru-hiker. My experience however, has been that building a campfire breaks the routine, helping me to slow down and reflect on our journey. Moments like those are important. Hiking more than two thousand miles is a formidable task, so much so that one often blindly marches on from day to day, rarely taking time to linger. Some thru-hikers make more than thirty miles a day; many routinely hike between twenty and twenty-five. When elevation changes are taken into account, most days become nothing more than a long, tiring and dirty journey. At the end of the day, few thru-hikers are energetic enough to make a fire; instead, they pitch their tent or spread their sleeping bag inside a trail hut, chat with fellow hikers, then crawl into their temporary shelter and snore the night away. Campfires are generally not a necessity, as most hikers use small cook-stoves to prepare food and sleeping bags provide adequate warmth. And so, when Max and I gathered wood for the second time in the same day, I planned to spend the afternoon – lingering.

A while later we sat stoking our campfire when a man from an RV that was parked nearby approached us. "Fella's," he said.

"Hi," Max replied.

"Hope you don't mind my asking, but what brings you here?" After I told him that we were taking a detour from hiking the Appalachian Trail, the man said, "I thought so – you've got that trail-weary look about you."

"You know that look?" I asked.

"I know it well. I used to work at a little campground near Jennings Creek. It's just south of here over the mountain."

"Jennings Creek," I said. "I used to spend time there in the summer."

"Then you probably know Black Bear Campground?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Hikers used to stop there all the time for supplies and showers; sometimes they'd bunk down for a night or two." The kind man scratched his head and asked, "You boys hiking all the way?"

"That's our intention," I responded.

"That's quite an undertaking."

"You can say that again," replied Max.

The man looked hesitantly at Max and then at me. He pursed his lips slightly and nodded, giving the impression that he had just made an important decision. "Bet you boys would like a hot shower," he said.

"Can't think of anything I'd like more," replied Max.

"Well," he said, "You're welcome to use mine."

"Seriously?" asked Max.

"Sure," replied the man.

"That's an offer I can't refuse," said Max.

"Get your stuff together and follow me." The man looked at me and said, "How about you?"

"I'm in."

Max picked up his backpack and said, "Let's go."

The man laughed. "Come on," he said.

Max and the man disappeared into the RV. I sat by the fire and prepared myself a cup of coffee. A few minutes later the man stepped out of his RV and walked back to our camp.

"Forgot to introduce myself. The name's Squires, Owen Squires."

I stood up, shook his hand and introduced myself.

He looked at me and smiled. It was a tired smile. He appeared to be in his late sixties or early seventies. He had a thick frock of neatly combed white hair, his cheeks were red and his skin was slightly transparent with small spider veins and scattered age-spots on his hands and face. His ears and nose were large, more characteristics of his age, and his eyes were sad. The white cotton shirt, tan slacks, brown braided belt and walking shoes were well worn and comfortable looking.

As I looked at Mr. Squires I was reminded of a particular afternoon I spent at a marina near my home in Tidewater. Standing on the deck of small yacht, with a rope in his hand, was a former governor of Virginia – a man whose picture I had seen many times in the newspaper and on television. His face was so familiar that I recognized him immediately, although he did not look at all as I expected. My image of him was one of a man who commanded respect by his appearance and the eloquence of his words, but on that day at the marina he looked like a man whose best days were past, like an almost lifeless soul who had little more to give. Mr. Squires looked the same.

"Mr. Squires, what brings you here?"

"Please call me Owen," he said. "I've come with my son, Junior. My wife passed away a few years ago. For a while after that, I just sat around the house and didn't do much. Then, Junior, he insisted that I get on with my life. We both live in North Carolina. One day, about a year ago, I guess, he came to visit. While he was there he took me out to look at RVs. When I asked him what I'd do with one, he said that we could travel together to these reenactments. You see, my wife, she was pretty sick for a while, so I didn't do much back then but take care of her. My son, he's just looking out for me and wants me to get out of the house and all. You know..." Owen' eyes filled with tears and he paused, taking a deep breath before he continued. "I'm sorry," he said.

"It's okay," I said, and for a moment I pitied him.

"Oh," he replied, sounding disgusted with himself. "My son's right – it's time to move on." He paused and then asked, "So what's it been like for you and your brother – hiking the A.T.?"

I summarized our experience, including details about Max's fall and the six straight days of rain. I told him that we were hiking from south to north and that we started at Springer Mountain in mid-March. We discussed the character of the Trail and how it changed as one progressed from the mountains in northern Georgia to Maine. Owen said that in his lifetime he had hiked "bit and pieces" of the Trail in Virginia and in the Great Smoky Mountains in North Carolina. He had even camped on the Trail a few times. "You know what I like most about hiking for a few days?"

"What's that?" I asked.

"Oh, I know it's kind of cliché, but what I like most is the solitude. It's good to get away sometimes. But," he said with emphasis, "I bet it's not the same when you're out there for weeks on end."

"You're right. In fact, some people don't handle it well."

"So I've heard," he said. Even with his familiarity he was intrigued by the idea of thru-hiking the Trail. He continued asking questions but soon seemed satisfied, and he changed the topic by asking, "So, when did you spend time at Jennings Creek?"

"Mostly during the summers when I was a boy. Early 70's, I guess."

"That's when I worked at the campground. Did your folks have a place there?"

"No, but the family of a friend of mine owned a cabin that stood alongside the Jennings Creek."

"I might know the place," said Owen. "What were your friends' names?"

"Last name was Butler."

"Butler. Hmm, they probably had family around there. There was an old log cabin on the campground that once belonged to the Butler family."

"You know," I said, "I remember going to see that place."

We both stood silent for a moment. I was remembering the cabin and wondering if Owen was doing the same. Finally, he said, "Small world."

"Yes it is," I replied. Unable to think of anything to add to the conversation I asked, "So, what do you think of all this, Owen?"

He stared at me as though he didn't know what I meant. Then he asked, "You mean reenacting?"

"Yes."

"Oh, for most of the boys this is just a hobby. Others live and breathe the Civil War. They study it and talk about it all the time. You know how a man can be when he gets obsessed with something. Most of them are pretty good boys, I guess."

Owen took a deep breath, then looked down and scuffed at the dirt. He was wearing a distant expression that made me wonder what he might say next. In the awkward silence I thought about the reenactors Max and I had encountered when we first came down from the mountain. The awkwardness vanished when the door to Owen's RV opened and Max walked out with a smile on his clean-shaven face.
Chapter VII

4:10 pm

It was my turn for a shower. I don't know when, if ever, I so looked forward to the feel of hot water running down my back. While hiking day after day I came to ignore the dirt and grime that built up on the skin. I ignored my stiff, matted hair. When I did get a chance to take a shower, the water was usually cold, or if I was lucky, lukewarm. The offer to get a hot shower was the kindest gesture Owen Squires could make.

I followed Owen into his RV. He showed me around before he led me to the bathroom. He opened a tiny linen closet, pulled out a clean towel and handed it to me. "Enjoy," he said.

"That won't be a problem."

Owen excused himself and went outside.

Sitting down on the toilet lid, I took off my shoes and socks. The stench of my feet was familiar enough not to bother me, although I was confident that I was the only one who would think that way. I laid my socks across my shoes and stood up to remove the rest of my clothes.

I loosened my belt, unzipped my jeans and pulled them off. The jeans were soft from many days and nights of endless wear. I took off my shirt and T-shirt – both were stained around the armpits. I didn't have a change of outerwear, but thankfully did have clean underwear and socks.

Reaching into the shower, I turned on the water and adjusted the knob until the water felt comfortably hot. I stepped in. "Oh man, oh man," I said out loud, not caring if anyone heard me. I just stood there and let the water spray onto my head and run down my body. The dirty water swirled into the drain. At first it was dark and muddy with bits of broken branches, bark and leaves. Gradually it became more transparent until the last remnant of trail debris disappeared into the drain. I turned around and let the water massage my back as I reached for the soap. I had forgotten just how good a hot shower feels. It is especially noticeable when one has been deprived of such pleasure for as long as I had.

The shower had the effect that only a hot shower could – making me wonder what was so unusual about showering. I had read that the sound of falling water relaxes most people. I know I have felt that way. In fact, Max and I tried to camp next to cascading creeks whenever possible – it's great for sleeping. But the _sound_ of falling water does not compare to the _feel_ of falling water, especially the feeling of hot water running down your back.

As the shower enclosure in Owen's RV filled with steam, my pores opened and sinuses cleared. I have no idea what really happened next, but I will accept that as the sinuses opened up, cranial pressure fell and somehow stimulated the neurons in my brain to release more serotonin or, perhaps, endorphins. With the elevated brain activity my ability to concentrate intensified, and I stood at the center of a secluded world that suddenly seemed right.

I first considered that one of the important daily experiences might be the relaxing, mindless activity of showering; eventually realizing that taking a shower fosters a balanced mixing of subconscious and conscious thoughts that leads to clarity not even duplicated by driving on an open highway with favorite music playing on the radio. I had lived long enough, however, to also know that a steamy shower sometimes evokes delusions. Perhaps as evidence, I imagined the sound of an out-of-tune, would-be singer attempting a difficult melody while showering – he sounds good to himself, but not to anyone else.

Too self-conscious to sing in a stranger's shower, I began to hum and daydream of a world where I was a benevolent master of knowledge – ready to espouse transcendental thoughts of unquestionable value to all humankind; in other words, I was full of myself. I was about to speak to a group of amorphous, out-of-focus bodies that were, mysteriously, hovering about in a hazy room filled with cabinets. The cabinets, finished in a warm honey glaze, made me realize that I was in the kitchen of my childhood home. In front of me were a young Max and a large woman wiping her hands on her apron. I vainly tried to recall her name, but the memory was too distant.

The large woman and the others among my imaginary audience were, I was certain, interested in every word I spoke – clearly they stood before me ready to accept whatever I might say as the undeniable truth. And so, with great sincerity I began an enlightened discourse. "You know, it's a rather simple proposition," I said out loud. "The founders of this nation clearly understood that there are certain inalienable rights. These rights are manifest regardless of any human characteristic that visibly or otherwise distinguishes one person from another. Such characteristics are not grounds for denying people the right of free speech, freedom to worship, to vote, to own property. I believe that anyone, at any time in history, has had the capacity to understand this truth. One need only listen to that inner voice, the voice that..."

"What the hell are you talking about in there?" I heard Max say, shocking my synapses back into their more normal state.

Embarrassed, I snapped, "Why didn't you tell me you were out there? Good Lord, can't a man have a little privacy? The least you could do is whistle or something."

Max laughed and said, "And miss out on your infinite wisdom? Ha! Look, witless one, I'm getting your clothes. Mr. Squires is going to let us use his washing machine."

"They put washing machines in these things?"

"Evidently."

I showered self-consciously as Max picked up my dirty clothes. He asked in a tone I can only describe as sinister delight, "So who _were_ you talking to in there, some stupid son of an ugly man?"

"No one," I said sheepishly.

"You always did live in your own little world. Anyway," he continued, "I now know what they mean when they say, 'You talk like you're in the shower'."

"What's that?"

He responded slowly and deliberately, "It's easy to be _right_ when _no one_ is listening."

"You're weird," I said.

"Me," he scoffed. "What do you call, 'To understand this truth, you need only listen to that inner voice'?"

"Enlightened."

"Oh that's precious," he said. "Hurry up, I'm getting hungry."

"Don't rush me."

"I hope you run out of hot water."

"What a nice guy."

"Yeah."

"Wait a minute," I said "What am I supposed to wear?"

Max answered, "A Union soldier's uniform. It's on the toilet seat."

"Are you kidding?"

"No. It's the only thing Owen's got that will fit your skinny butt. It belongs to his son."

"A Union uniform; I'm not sure how I feel about that. After all, I was born and raised in the South." After a pause I asked, "So, what's it like?"

"The uniform?"

"Yeah."

"Just a light blue pair of pants and a white shirt."

"What are you wearing?"

"Some of Owen's clothes," Max answered. Then he whispered, "So, do you think this guy's okay?"

"Owen? Yeah, I guess. Seems nice enough. We had a good talk while you were showering. Besides, we're not going to be around that long."

"You're right, Billy Yank," said Max and before I could respond he said, "Later," and closed the door. I could hear him loudly whistling "Yankee Doodle" as he walked down the hall. The cheerful quality of his tune said that he had his lips pursed. He was either still teasing me, congratulating himself for teasing me, or both.

I stood there still enjoying the shower, but had no desire to finish lecturing. Instead I rinsed off and began thinking about dinner.

I got out of the shower, dried off and put on the Union uniform. The pants were made of thick wool and the shirt was cotton. The pants fit a little tight in the thighs and hips, but the shirt fit perfectly. It was cut differently than a modern shirt – a narrow collar and no double layer of cloth down the center where it buttoned up.

As I stood there in a Yankee uniform I looked in the mirror and recalled the conversation I had had with Ms. Thompson at the sutlers' village. Again, I wondered what it was really like to be a soldier in the Civil War. I wondered what a soldier, any soldier, thinks about the first time they put on a uniform. What did they think about before they went into battle; did they really want to fight and were they afraid to die? I thought of Henry Fleming, the protagonist in Steven Crane's _The Red Badge of Courage_. How many soldiers are like Henry – so unsure about his own resolve to fight while others are dying around him, willing to accept heroic accolades even though he did not deserve them, and yet finally courageous enough to become a _fighting_ soldier? As I stood there wearing that uniform, I became more interested in the Civil War and the reenactment of the Battle of Clear Creek.

When I walked out of the bathroom I found Max and Owen sitting at a dining table. Max was flipping cards one by one, playing solitaire.

"Fits perfect," Owen remarked. He picked up a glass half filled with an amber liquid. At first I though it was tea.

"It's comfortable," I said. "Thanks." I pulled a chair from the table and sat down. The smell of bourbon drifted into my nostrils.

"Care for a drink?" Owen asked. "I've got sodas, tea, orange juice and water; or," he held his glass up, "something a little stronger, if you prefer."

"I haven't had a glass of iced tea in a while." I answered. "Max here tells me that you can spend a lot of money on one of these uniforms."

"That's right," replied Owen, "especially if you purchase all the accessories. What you've got on would cost two-hundred dollars or more."

"What's a jacket cost?" I asked.

"Oh, at least a hundred and fifty."

"And a hat?"

"Forty bucks, maybe more." Owen stood up with his glass in hand and walked toward the kitchen stove. He twirled his drink and the ice clinked against the side of the glass. He opened a large pot and stirred with a wooden spoon. "Chili's hot," he said. "Y'all hungry?"

"Hungry's not a strong enough word," I said.

"Well, there's plenty here." Owen opened a cabinet, pulled down three large soup bowls and handed one to Max and one to me. "Help yourself."

"That's what I call a bowl," said Max. He neatly gathered and stacked the playing cards, while I ladled out chili until the bowl was nearly full. Owen poured me a glass of tea.

As I sat down at the table I saw a stack of newspapers sitting in a chair. I picked up the one on top and immediately noticed an article about a U.S. senator who was under pressure to resign because he made some racially insensitive comments at a friend's birthday party. According to the article, he steadfastly argued that his remarks were taken out of context and reportedly apologized on three separate occasions. By the time I finished reading, it seemed apparent that he would be forced to resign. Evidently his apologies were not enough to appease the various minority rights groups, legislators in the opposing party, and those within his own party who stood to gain from his departure.

I laid the article in front of Max and asked, "Did you read this?"

"Yeah."

"I don't miss politics." It was hard to keep up with politics, or any news, when you spend your days and nights on the trail.

"You know," Max said, "it might be better if they _didn't_ pressure him to resign."

"Why's that?" I asked.

"You remember when that auto repair chain was accused of cheating thousands of customers out of money by charging for services they didn't provide?"

"Yeah."

"Well, soon after that story broke I took both of my automobiles to them for servicing. In my mind the scandal was a guarantee that I would get everything I paid for, and then some."

Owen said, "I wish I'd thought of that."

"Max is a clever one." I continued, "So Max, what's that got to do with the senator?"

"Are you kidding, he'd be the best political advocate minorities have had in a long time."

"You've got a point," I said, "but do you really think that logic applies here?"

"No," replied Max. "But a desperate politician might."

Owen spoke up. "Do you think he'd be in all that trouble if he really understood the issue?"

I raised my eyebrows, looked at Max and pointed toward Owen and said, "Now _he's_ got a point."

I reached over and picked up another paper. As I lifted it from the stack I noticed a number of articles that had been clipped from other papers. The one on top was entitled, "Mississippi Reenactors Turn Their Backs on the Klan." I picked up the article and the one beneath was entitled, "Blacks Reenact as Confederate Soldier." The next one read, "Man Shot and Killed by African-American for Flying Confederate Flag."

"Wow," I said.

Owen saw me looking at the various articles and said, "Junior cut those out."

"I see."

"He's really into this stuff," Owen said.

I was curious to see what else I might find in the stack, but got the feeling that Owen was uncomfortable with me looking at the newspapers so I put them down. I returned to eating my chili. Before I finished Max went back for a second bowl, and Owen was pouring another bourbon and cola.
Chapter VIII

4:45 pm

When we finished eating dinner Max went to move our clothes from the washing machine to the dryer. Stuffed and too uncomfortable to just sit, I asked Owen if I could walk outside in his son's uniform.

"Sure," he said. "He won't wear it anymore."

After putting on a clean pair of socks and my hiking boots, I stepped outside into a festive atmosphere. It was late afternoon and sunlight spotted the decaying pine needles that covered the spectator's camping area. There were still several hours of daylight left, and a few people dressed in Civil War period clothes and many dressed in modern attire were wandering about. Others were sitting in lounge chairs around little campfires or gas grills, eating and drinking and talking.

Feeling the need to walk, I wandered toward the sutlers' village. This time I was not interested in books; instead I was interested in learning more about uniforms and accessories. There were two sutlers selling everything from Civil War period civilian clothes to period uniforms. A variety of accessories ranging from handkerchiefs to bayonets to Civil War flags were also on display. A few peeks at price tags confirmed what I had been told; one could invest a lot of money in period clothing and accessories. While I stood comparing the cost between hats a clerk approached me and said, "The one in your left hand is the most popular."

"This one," I said as I held out my left hand and set the cap in my right hand back on the table.

"Yes sir."

"Why's that?"

"It's a good value. The material is a wool and synthetic blend. So it has an authentic appearance and feel, yet the polyester makes it durable. Also, the brim is one hundred percent hand-tooled leather. Everything is double stitched – by hand."

"How much?" I asked, pretending I was interested.

"Seventy-nine."

"Do you have one that costs less?"

"Yes, the one you set down over there." He pointed to the cap I had laid back on the table. "It's forty-nine dollars."

"What's the difference?"

"The material in that one is synthetic and the leather is of a lower quality. It's okay, although most reenactors don't use them. The material gets little thread-balls on it when it gets worn."

"Thread-balls?"

"Sorry," he said. "But I don't know what else to call them. Have you ever owned a polyester sweater?"

"Ah yes," I said. "I know what you mean." Then I asked, "Do you have a Union cap like it?"

"Yes we do," answered the clerk.

"Same price?"

"Yes."

I reached my hand back to where a pocket would be; and, although I knew I didn't have my wallet, I said, "Darn, I didn't bring my wallet. What time do you close?"

"We start packing up for the evening around six."

"What time is it now?"

The clerk looked at his watch and said, "Almost five."

"Good. If you don't mind I'll look around some more."

"That's fine. Can I help you with anything else?"

"No thanks," I replied. Then I asked, "Are you open in the morning?"

"Yes. We start setting up at six."

"Six?"

"We do a good business in the mornings before the battles start."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome," he responded.

I looked around at the flags on display and was surprised to see how many different varieties were used during the Civil War. There seemed to be one for each state and a seemingly endless number of other banners and pennons representing the many different regiments and battalions. I recognized only a few and noticed that most consisted of a combination of red and white stripes with blue fields dotted with stars. The numbers and patterns of stars were inconsistent from flag to flag. There were several that had two wide red stripes with a single white stripe sandwiched between. Most of the flags were rectangular but some were square and others were triangular. There were numerous symbols on the flags including eagles and shields, clovers and palm trees and anchors and cannons.

Among all the flags were two that stood out. Larger than many of the others, they were not hanging on racks; instead they were mounted on poles and standing upright at opposite corners of the awning overhanging the sutler's store. I walked over to the Confederate battle flag and took it in my hand. It must have been five feet across. I stroked the smooth material; it resembled silk, but I recognized it as finely woven polyester that had a silky sheen. The blue bars were a deep dark blue and the red field was rich, almost luminescent. Unlike other Confederate battle flags that I had seen flying elsewhere this one was new, not faded from an overexposure of cheap dyes to relentless sunlight. The stars were embroidered, not pieces of cloth sewn into place, and the flag was mounted on the polyurethane-coated hardwood pole with brass grommets and screw-eyes. This was a nice piece of craftsmanship – obviously intended for the serious Civil War enthusiast. I took the tag in my hand and read it.

Confederate Battle Flag  
"Southern Cross"

Made by

Lufkin's Period Flags and Clothing

In the lower right-hand corner of the tag was the price. "Wow," I said quietly. I held the flag up by one corner and admired its vibrant colors; then I let it fall and decided to continue walking. My stomach was still full from the chili.
Chapter IX

5:00 pm

Leaving the sutler's village, I turned to walk farther into the valley away from the mountains that surrounded the reenactment area. Cars were lined along the road and parked in every available space between the trees. Continuing on, I entered a canopy of hardwoods hanging over the road. The leaves had grown to a mature size, unlike those seen at the higher elevations. Eventually, I walked into a clearing where I saw the roof of an older home sitting back against the mountains. I wanted to continue but felt awkward standing there dressed in the strange combination of a Union uniform and modern hiking boots, so I turned around and headed back to the reenactment site.

As I was passing through the trees again, a large tractor-trailer approached, and I was forced to duck between two cars. As the trailer passed I stepped blindly back out into the road and immediately heard the screech of tires on the asphalt. A blue four-wheel drive pick-up came to a stop, and I instinctively jumped back between the cars. The truck looked like the one that Max and I rode in when we hitched a ride down from the Parkway. Looking through the window at the back glass I didn't see any stickers, so I assumed it was a different truck. Then I looked at the driver and saw a woman with long dark hair staring at me. I mouthed the word "sorry" and hoped that she would drive away. She didn't. Instead, she slowly rolled the truck forward. She stared; I felt like she was taunting me. She pulled beside me and stopped as I stood there ordering myself to be apologetic, hoping to avoid a scene. The window slowly disappeared into the body of the door and although the part in the middle of her locks of black hair was the first thing I saw, the first feature of her face that came into focus was her eyes. Much to my relief the eyes were not angry; instead, they seemed to be smiling and strangely familiar. Almost instantly, her nose, then her smile came into view. My mouth fell open for a moment before I could say, "Anna?"

I stood there wondering if she would recognize me; she had never seen me with a beard before. Almost instantly she replied, "You silly boy, at least let me kiss you before you throw yourself in front of my truck."

Before I realized what I was saying, I said, "Look at you, Anna, you're as beautiful as ever."

"Ian Ward Hamilton," she said with mock indignity, "you're so forward." We laughed and cut evasive glances at each other. Someone honked a horn. "Imagine," she said, "can't stop and talk to an old friend on a lonely country road without causing a traffic jam. Let me find a place to park."

"Okay," I said without trying to hide my smile.

I'd loved Anna for as long as I had known her, but I had given up on our relationship. Best friends for most of our lives, we courted seriously in high school and as adults, but our relationship had recently cooled. Within the last year we had stopped corresponding altogether.

We first met in the fourth grade, the same year I moved to Virginia. We quickly became friends. We begged teachers to let us sit next to each other in class, always ate lunch together and teamed up when we could, to work on class projects. In middle school we signed up for the same classes and often planned our social schedules together. I did not become interested in dances and parties until about the eighth grade. Anna and I had our first date that year when we attended a school dance. That was in the late 70's when everyone wore bell-bottoms and double-knit wide-lapel shirts; when it was fashionable for males to wear shoes with high heels. But even with one-and-a-half-inch heels I was a good inch shorter than Anna. What I remember most about that dance was that she never said anything about me resting my head on her shoulder and slobbering on her dress the first time we slow-danced together. She was very understanding that way.

By the time we entered high school we had developed a deep but unspoken respect for each other. Throughout high school we dated off and on, but Anna always insisted that we should be "free to date other people." Sometimes I would date other girls for months, but I always came back to Anna. I constantly compared the others to her and none quite measured up. When we did date for any length of time, we never swapped class rings nor did we do anything suggesting that she was my possession or I was hers. We had grown comfortable with our feelings for each other.

In our last year of high school I grew anxious about the future of our relationship. I knew that we would both go to college but, since her family was considerably more affluent than mine, I feared that we would go to different schools, and that our lives would change in ways that would make us less compatible. I was right, at least about going to different schools.

Anna went to Amherst College on an academic scholarship. She studied anthropology and astronomy. She also performed for a small ballet company in Boston and trained as a concert pianist. She first told me about her seemingly eclectic mixture of coursework during the summer after our freshman year. I asked her, "So what will you do, excavate ancient alien cities and villages? Atlantis might be a good place to start."

Anna had a quick and confident response for my aspiring sophomoric humor. "Astronomy was important to ancient cultures," she explained. "Consider the Druids, the Mayans and even the supposed 'wise men' who traveled to Bethlehem. They are just a few examples of ancient cultures or people that relied on the heavens." That was typical Anna, always prepared to defend her decisions.

My college years were less inspiring. I started out with two years of junior college in the mountains of North Carolina and then transferred to a state school with a reputation that was easily lost on a gray wall of middle-class mediocrity. Anna studied the great philosophers, musicians, artists and historians. My education was more vocationally oriented and practical – I learned to live by the seat of my pants. I learned to survive in the world as it is; she learned to change it. But I did not envy her. In fact, our college experiences had turned out the way I expected.

Hurrying along the road, I remembered I was wearing a Union uniform and hiking boots. "This should be fun to explain," I said to myself.

Anna found a spot and parked her truck. I was still walking when she jumped out and ran toward me. When she was a few steps away, she held out her arms; then I held out mine and we embraced.

"I can't believe it's you, Ian," she said. "Where have you been hiding? You didn't answer my letter."

"Letter?"

"Yes, I sent it weeks ago."

Anna didn't wait for my response. Instead, she wrapped her arms around me and buried her head in my shoulder. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you," she said. The sudden public display of emotion, the sudden submission, was unusual for Anna, and I wondered if something was wrong. The momentary concern passed as I enjoyed our embrace and hoped that the emotional letdown of the last year had been premature.

Anna released me and backed up a few feet. "Let me look at you." She first looked into my eyes then tilted her head down in stages. "Okay, you look fit, but the beard's too long and I think you'd better explain the outfit. The boots definitely do not pass the authenticity test." She rolled her eyes as though she didn't care much about "authenticity".

"Well," I started, "Max and I were up on the Appalachian Trail when we heard...."

She grabbed my arm, "Wait – you and Max – hiking the A.T.?"

"Yes."

"Thank God," she said. She motioned toward the battlefield, "I was afraid you were a reenactor."

"Me?"

Ignoring my response, Anna asked, "So, Max is here too?"

"Yes, we met a man who is here with his son. Max is there right now – in his RV."

"Okay, go on," she said.

"We hitched a ride down here, just to see what all the fuss was about."

"That explains the shoes. Now where did you get that uniform?"

"These are loaners. Max is washing our clothes – in Mr. Squires's RV."

She smiled and said, "Wow," as she held on to my arms. "Here you are, alive and well, standing right in front of me. I can't believe it."

"So, what about you? What are you doing out here in," I paused, realizing that I only had a vague notion of where I was. "Here in Clear Creek, Virginia."

"Clear Creek," said Anna, "that's the name of the Civil War battle that took place here. Clear Creek runs along the base of the mountain behind the Union Camp. This is Little Valley."

"Ok then, what are you doing here in _Little Valley_?"

"This is my new home."

"New home?"

"Yes, Daddy inherited a farm. We still have our other house, but we plan to spend most of our time here."

"So this farm, it's close by?"

Anna pointed toward the reenactment site, "That's a big part of it over there."

"The battlefield?"

"Unfortunately." Anna looked distracted for a moment before she asked, "How long are you going to be here?"

"We're leaving in the morning, but when did you get this farm?"

"You mean, when did Daddy inherit it. It happened about a year ago." She looked at me and said emphatically, "Ian, you must stay for a couple of days. We'd love to have you. I'd invite you to stay tonight, but we already have a house full of guests. Tomorrow maybe?"

"That would be nice, but we have to get back on the trail in the morning. We're already a week behind."

Anna looked at me and frowned. "Well," she said, "let's go see Max. I'm supposed to go out with Mom and Dad this evening, but I can be late." Anna and I turned and walked briskly toward the spectators' camping area. On the way I asked, "So, _how_ are your parents?"

"Wonderful – finally. Daddy's like a new man."

"That's good," I said. Anna continued to talk about her father until we came to the RV. I climbed the step and knocked.

Owen opened the door. "Max?" he said in an inquisitive tone.

"Yeah?"

"Is your brother in the habit of picking up beautiful women?"

Max replied, "Never," as he leaned to look out the door. "My God! Anna."

"Hi, Max."

"Where did you come from?"

"Not very far away," she replied, "I live here."

"No kidding?" asked Max.

"No kidding."

Owen interrupted. "Hi, I'm Owen Squires. Won't you come in?"

"Thank you, Mr. Squires."

Owen held the door open. When I passed, he raised his eyebrows twice, in quick succession. Immediately, I noticed that his face was flushed. At first I thought the redness represented some momentary infatuation with Anna, but when I saw his watery eyes and turned to avoid his bourbon-scented breath I knew otherwise.

Anna hugged Max and then sat on the couch next to me. Owen sat in the recliner. Max sat with his legs straddled and arms folded across the back of a chair.

"So how are you, Anna?" asked Max.

"I'm doing well."

"Your mom and dad," added Max, "I assume they are well too?"

"They're fine," she said.

"Ian told me that they had been ill."

Anna glanced at me and then looked at Max. "Yes, they were ill for a long time, but they are both much better. Mom still enjoys gardening, and Daddy, well, he's into everything."

Between the letters – Anna did not like to correspond with me through e-mail; "I want to fill your top dresser drawer with letters. Letters are a lost art," she always said – phone calls and occasional visits I pieced together the sequence of events that Anna's parents had endured over a long stretch of years. Her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer years ago. She underwent a successful single mastectomy and chemotherapy, only to have a second malignancy appear in the other breast less than two years later. Before she fully recovered from the first round of treatments she endured yet another surgery and more chemotherapy. Her second recovery was drawn out. Soon afterward, Anna's father was diagnosed with heart disease during a routine check-up. The Colonel, as I referred to him in Anna's presence, underwent angioplasty. But within a year he was back in the hospital for bypass surgery.

Anna was an only child; and, she was determined to see her parents through their difficult times. I patiently waited, admiring Anna's loyalty; but as time passed, we grew increasingly detached. The weekly letters became monthly letters and, finally, quarterly letters. The monthly phone calls eventually ceased altogether, and the last time I saw her I truly believed our relationship had come to an end.

"Now Max," Anna said, "I understand that you and this high-energy brother of yours are hiking the Appalachian Trail."

Max laughed and replied, "We're making a go of it."

"So, what inspired that ambitious undertaking?" she asked.

Max glanced at me before he fixed his gaze on Anna. "It's a long story," he said, "but you can look at me and figure out the better part of it."

I interrupted. "It wasn't easy to get him to commit."

"It's not _easy_ for anyone." Anna added. "Committing might be the easiest thing about it."

Max pointed to me and said, "Let's just say that for a long time, knucklehead over there thought I'd been spending too much time feeling sorry for myself. So, the do-gooder shows up at my house one day and asks, 'How much you got tied up in all this electronic junk?'"

"Electronic media," I said.

"Of course," Max continued, "I have no idea what's on his mind. So I ask, 'What are you talking about?' 'You know,' he says, 'the television, DVD, game box, computer.' At first I think he's being nosey, so I ask, 'What's it to you?' Anyway, he tells me he wants to buy it from me, _at a premium_. Of course, I think he's lost his mind. Well, he made me an offer, which sounded pretty good, until he laid out the details. He tells me that if he buys all my _electronic_ _media_..."

Max emphasized "electronic media" as if he thought it was an expression that only a snobby sophisticate would use.

"...I can't replace it for at least six months. Well I didn't think about it long. I didn't really want to give up television or the Internet, but I agreed to his offer."

"Don't forget Max, I made you promise to pay me back if you backed out."

"That's right," he continued. "Anyhow, I'm standing there and Ian pulls out a wad of hundred-dollar bills. He starts counting out the agreed amount, and I'm standing there thinking I've just made a great deal. But when I see he's got at least a couple thousand dollars left, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd sold myself a little short."

"Y-e-a-h, right," I protested.

Owen looked at me and said, "You need any more televisions, computers, VCRs?" Everyone laughed.

"So that's it," said Anna. "Ian got you off the couch and back on your feet, and here you are."

"No, not exactly," I replied.

"There's more?" asked Anna.

"That's just the beginning," said Max as he turned toward me and chuckled. "Anna, no sooner had I taken the money when he walked over and took my wide-screen television off the stand, walked out the back door and threw it in the pool."

"Ian!"

"Oh, he was just getting warmed up. I had two other televisions in the house. He took both of them outside in the front yard, got my shotgun and went outside and blasted them to pieces. Then he gets my ladder out of the garage, hauls my computer and nineteen-inch monitor up on the roof and throws it down onto the asphalt driveway. By this time he's got an audience. There're neighbors all over the yard wondering what this crazy brother of mine is doing. Of course, I'm telling them he paid for it all so they don't think _I'm_ crazy."

Max took a deep breath. "To make a long story short, he rummages through my house looking for anything and everything that might be considered electronic media. He's taking hand-held electronic games, video games, you name it; he cleaned me out. Then, as if destroying all my fun and entertainment wasn't good enough, he tells me that he's got to go somewhere, but that he'll be right back. Well, I'm left there cleaning up the mess _he_ made. Finally, I'm finishing things up and here he comes with this big box in the back of his truck. At first I think he's going to replace my television, but I quickly dismissed that hopeful thought. I'm standing there as he pulls in the yard trying to read what's on the box. When he stops, I walk over to the truck and see the word 'treadmill' stamped on the side. He opens the door, flashes a cheesy smile and says, 'You've got six months'. 'Six months for what?' I asked. 'Six months to get ready to hike the Appalachian Trail.' Well, you can imagine the kind of expletives that came out of my mouth. At that moment, I swore up and down that I would never hike the Appalachian Trail."

Everyone laughed for a few seconds before Anna said, "And here you are."

"Yeah, here I am. Me and my proverbial 'I hate to admit it, but it's the best thing that's happened to me in a long time.'"

"So you're what," said Anna, "about one-third of the way there?"

"About that," I said.

We continued to talk about our thru-hike attempt until I asked, "So, Anna, how is it that these reenactors are using your farm?"

"Daddy does well renting this land," she replied. Sounding apologetic she added, "It was part of a long-term contract that existed when he inherited the farm, but he knows I..." Anna stopped short and glanced at Owen. She was obviously uncomfortable expressing her thoughts in his presence, but I knew her well enough to know that she might have misgivings about reenactments.

Evidently, Owen perceived Anna's discomfort. He sat up on the edge of his chair and cheerfully said, "You know Anna, sometimes I'm not sure why I come to these things. The battles are interesting to watch, but it concerns me."

Wondering how much our host had had to drink, I looked at Max and subtly gestured toward Owen. Max understood my meaning and like a baseball catcher giving a signal he moved his hand between his legs and flashed three fingers. I hoped that three was the total and not the number Owen had consumed since we had eaten.

No one said anything; and, Owen took a deep breath. He looked at Max and then me and said, "You fellas know, my son Junior's out there. And I meant it when I said that most of the people involved are good people. I don't claim to know why everyone's out there, but I do know that many of them have a great-great grandfather or uncle or some ancestor who fought in the Civil War. Others, I think, just want to learn more about it. They're a well-meaning bunch."

I was thankful that Owen was speaking clearly. But I wondered if he could avoid getting emotional, the way he had when he started talking about his wife earlier in the day.

Anna sat up straight. "So, do you think that's the way it is for all reenactors?"

Owen looked down and shook his head. "No," he said.

We all sat silently for a moment, waiting for Owen to continue. Before he could speak, however, Anna interjected, "Oh, why don't we talk about something else?"

Owen reacted, "You're very thoughtful, young lady, but I don't mind talking about it..."

At that moment I hoped Owen would stop talking or that someone would interrupt him and change the subject. I sensed that he was beginning say things that would make us all uncomfortable; it was like one of those moments when you want to whisper in your friend's ear and tell him that he has said enough. But Owen didn't pause.

"In fact," he said, "I used to live next door to a fella that was, well, the kind of person that makes me wonder what these reenactments are really about." Owen lifted his glass and took a sip of his drink. "I lived next door to him for about four years. Nice enough in most ways. He's, or at least he was, the service manager at a car dealership. Talkative kind of guy, and real smart, you know. Seemed to be well respected at work and everyone in the neighborhood really liked him too. He regularly took my cars and truck in for inspections and service work. He'd bring them home with the bill. I'd write him a check and thank him. Made it simple for me, you know. In return, I'd pitch in and help out around his house from time to time. We helped each other out that way, the way neighbors are supposed to."

I slid out to the edge of the couch, anticipating that Owen had more to say about his neighbor. He sipped his bourbon again. "One day, after I'd been living next door to him for a couple of years, the house across the street was put up for sale. My neighbor and I were standing in the yard when a real estate agent drove up with a black couple. When they got out of the car, I could see my neighbor's face turning red. He got pretty steamed all of a sudden. I looked at him and asked, 'What's wrong?' although I was pretty sure I knew what was bothering him. 'Can't you see?' he said, motioning toward the people across the street. 'See what?' I asked. He whispered, 'Niggers.' So I asked him, 'Are you prejudiced?' What he said next confounds me to this day."

"What's that?" Anna asked quietly.

"He said, 'I ain't prejudice, I just don't like niggers.'"

"What?" Anna reacted.

Max and I glanced uncomfortably at each other.

"Exactly what I thought." Owen shook his head. "I had to go in the house and look up prejudice to see if I really knew what it meant. But that's beside the point. You see; that man's a reenactor. And while I hope there aren't many of his kind out there, I know there's at least a few like him." Owen took another sip of his bourbon and said, "I did eventually get a word in."

We stared at Owen, waiting for him to continue. "A few days later we were talking again. He mentioned that he was _afraid_ that colored folks might buy the house. So I asked him what he was _afraid_ of. He said that if they did, our property values would go down. I told him that prices would only go down because people like him wouldn't pay the same price to live in a neighborhood where colored folks lived. He looked at me kind of funny, but I think he got the point."

"Is he still your neighbor?"

"No." Owen lifted his glass and drained the rest of his whiskey. We sat silently as he got up and walked into the kitchen. He set his glass on the counter and said to no one in particular, "You know, I used to be hopeful that people would one day learn to get along a little better." I sat, waiting for him to say more – expecting words like, "I just don't know anymore." But he didn't say anything. He just stared across the room.

Anna stood up and walked over to Owen. She placed her hand on his shoulder and said, "I'm still hopeful, Mr. Squires." She smiled a warm smile that set us all at ease. Then she looked at her watch and said with the right touch of urgency, "Oh my, I hate to break up the party, but I've got to get home. Mom and Dad will think that I stood them up."

"Oh, stay a little longer," Max said.

"I wish I could, but my aunt, uncle and their friends stopped by for a few days on their way to Florida. My parents went with them to Lynchburg. I'm supposed to meet them for dinner."

"I'll walk you back to your truck," I said.

Anna reached out to shake Owen's hand. He took her hand and said, "Very nice to meet you, Anna."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Squires. If you need anything while you're here, don't hesitate to stop by. I live in the first house on the right as you're leaving the valley."

"The two-story brick house that sits back off the road?" Owen asked. "The one with the tall evergreens hanging over the drive?"

Anna replied, "Yes, that's the one."

"I love that place," he said.

"Well then, you must come by for a visit."

"Perhaps I will. Perhaps I will," repeated Owen.

"I look forward to it, Mr. Squires. Do you have a pen and a piece of paper? I'll write down our number for you."

"Certainly," said Owen and he walked away muttering.

Anna turned to my brother. "So Max, when are you coming to visit?"

"Might be sooner than you think. It seems that every minute that goes by, Ian wants to stay a little longer. Now that he's found you – well."

Anna stretched her arms around him and said, "It was truly good to see you, Max. Perhaps I can stop by in the morning to send you on your way." Anna stepped back abruptly and smiled. "Hey, why don't I drive you two back up the mountain tomorrow?"

Max and I looked at each other. Max replied, "We'd like that."

"What time do you want to leave?"

"We're in no hurry. Whatever suits you," I responded.

"How about nine o'clock?"

"That's perfect," I said.

"Then it's settled. I'll see you two at nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

Owen handed Anna a pen and a piece of paper. She wrote down her phone number and said, "Call me if you need anything, Mr. Squires."
Chapter X

5:40 pm

Anna and I walked slowly through the temporary campsite toward her truck. "I'm sorry about Owen," I said. "I had no idea. When I met him this..."

"It's okay, Ian."

"Why did you give him your phone number?"

"I guess I felt sorry for him; he seems so lonely."

"He's not likely to call."

"No." Anna shook her head.

"I'd say that you made him feel pretty good. You know, he mentioned that he lost his wife a few years ago and that he travels to reenactments with his son for something to do."

"The he is lonely," replied Anna, before she changed the subject. "Ian, I still can't get over the fact that you're here."

"Quite the coincidence, I'd say. Did you ever spend time here in the summer?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I used to spend time over the mountain, in the Jennings Creek area," I answered.

"Jennings Creek," Anna said as if she were trying to recall whether or not she'd ever heard the name.

"There's an access road near the Peaks of Otter. I spent a few weeks there in the summers when I was a kid. Anyway," I said realizing that my recollections meant little to Anna, "I'm sorry that we can't stay, but we shouldn't be here in the first place."

"I understand; and, I'll even forgive you if you promise me one thing."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Call me as soon as you and Max finish, or before if you get the chance. I want to hear about the rest of your adventure and – well – just make sure you call."

"I will." We walked slowly, and I found myself wondering what Anna had written in the letter that she had sent to me after Max and I already started our thru-hike attempt. "Anna," I said softly, "what was in that letter?"

"It was about what happened to us."

"What do you mean?"

"How our relationship seemed to sort of fall apart. Ian," she said, "I know I'm generally good about expressing my thoughts and feelings, but I spent a lot of time writing that letter. I'd prefer that you read it."

"I won't see it for months."

"I know," she said, "but I'd like you to be patient. I don't think I can express myself any better than I did in that letter."

"Don't you have a copy of it?"

Anna rolled her eyes and said, "You know me better than that."

"And you won't talk about it."

"Not now." She paused before she added, "I need time to think."

"I understand."

We walked side by side, and Anna looked at me and smiled an old, familiar smile. Her eyes cautiously welcomed my imagination, but I could tell that any physical advance would be turned away. My heart beat a little faster as I reacquainted myself with the features of a face I had known so well. It was soft, almost perfectly symmetrical with classic cheekbones. Her nose was straight, her lips were slightly less than full and her long, curly black hair and blue-gray eyes gave her a striking appearance. When we were younger, her beauty and poise were enough to unnerve me. She always seemed to know who she was; I was sometimes less certain about myself. Just two years ago she looked tired, and at times, almost lifeless. What I remember most about her appearance then was that her hair was dull and frizzy – the wavy curls were gone. No doubt the change was the result of worry and toil over her parents. But now, she was once again beautiful and as vibrant as ever. Although I did not know what the future held for us, I felt a newfound hope as I walked with her.

"So what do you look like behind all that facial hair?"

"Same old me," I said.

"You look well _and_ fit."

"That's me," I chuckled, "fit."

A moment later we were standing awkwardly next to her truck. Neither one of us wanted to say goodbye. The many months that had passed since we last saw each other left us with far too much talk about. I didn't know if I should simply say goodbye and walk away or if I should try to steal a little more of her time.

"What will _you_ do tonight?" Anna asked.

"Hang out with Max and Owen, I guess."

"As long as you stay out of the camps," she said.

"You really don't like these reenactments do you?"

"Not at all."

"Why? You heard Owen. Those people out there," I gestured toward the battlefield, "are well-meaning. After all, aren't most people?"

"You know as well as I do that there are people wandering around out there with other intentions."

"What intentions?"

"Ian," Anna replied. "You heard what Owen said about his neighbor. Don't pretend to be naïve."

"Naïve?"

Anna shook her head. "What kind of intentions _would you think_ people dressed in Confederate Uniforms might have?"

"Well, if it were Halloween or a costume party..."

"Stop teasing. Look," she said impatiently, "you know there are bigots out there."

"Bigots? How do you know they're bigots? Besides, there are bigots wandering around everywhere. What Owen's neighbor said, that must have happened years ago."

"I'm the one that lives here – remember? What I see, what I hear, and what I read in the papers suggest that bigotry is thriving in the heart of Virginia."

"' _Suggest_ that bigotry is thriving' – come on, Anna. If that's true here, then why is there a Union army out there? And blacks, why are there black reenactors out there? No, it seems to be more to it than that. Besides, what are you thinking – that you should ask them to leave?"

"No." Anna paused and gave me a hurt look. "You know though, I've got the urge to hide my hair under a hat and sneak into those camps just to listen to what those would-be soldiers talk about when they're sitting around the campfire. If only I didn't..." Anna turned her head and her words drifted off.

Before I realized what I was saying, I responded, "That's an idea. Why don't I do it?"

"Do what?" asked Anna, as she looked up at me.

"Infiltrate the camps," I said, trying to sound sly and funny at the same time.

"Oh, don't be silly."

It was obvious that Anna did not take my comment seriously, but as the words sank in, the idea of wandering around the army camps at night intrigued me. So I insisted, "I mean it, I'm going to do it."

The hurt look on her face disappeared, and she said, "You are serious, aren't you?"

"Of course, and I'll give you a full report in the morning."

"What if you get caught? You'll be hung as a spy," she said facetiously.

"Yes, it's a dangerous thing I'm about to do for you, Ms. Foxharte," I replied with mock seriousness.

"That's what worries me."

"But I need a uniform." I said. "This one doesn't belong to me."

Anna looked up. "Not a problem," she said. "I can get you one. There's a whole wardrobe in the barn."

"Wardrobe?"

"Yes, it's like a lost and found. Uniforms left behind from previous reenactments. We only keep them because the owners sometimes call looking for them." Anna grabbed my arm and said, "Let's go."

"Where?"

"To the barn to find you some clothes."
Chapter XI

5:50 pm

Anna and I hopped in her truck and she drove toward her house. I was happy to be riding with her. Unlike the last few times we'd visited, we seemed to have found a new sense of common purpose – albeit rather unusual. When she drove out of the trees into the open valley the top of her home came into view. It was the same house I'd seen while I was walking earlier in the day.

The truck crested the hill, and Anna pointed and said, "There it is". In many ways the house was typical of the weatherworn, two-story brick homes built in the mountains of Virginia during the 1800s. It was like a giant box with rows of windows on the first and second floors, symmetrically positioned across the front and along the side, each adorned with a pair of shutters. A porch extended from one side of the house to the other. Looking up, I immediately noticed the generous eaves that stuck out from the moderately pitched roof – well beyond the outer perimeter of the walls. The cornices were intricate, and both the main roof and the porch roof were finished with newly installed steel. There were two chimneys and two, perhaps more, flues extending beyond the top of each chimney. In the center of the roof was a short tower-like structure, a kind of parapet, with windows on all four sides.

The house alone was impressive, but the landscape, which was at once natural and well manicured, displayed what I recognized as trademark features of Anna's mother, Elizabeth Foxharte. Large deciduous trees and several evergreens surrounded the house, and tall firs overhung the curved driveway. The mature trees, some with ivy crawling up their trunks, were trimmed high, leaving more than ample room for anyone to wander aimlessly beneath them. Dogwoods, some newly planted, were scattered about in bunches among the wide flowerbeds punctuated with hardy rhododendron and a few perennials that I could not name. It was far more attractive than I had imagined when Owen described it earlier, especially with the freshly painted outbuildings set a comfortable distance away from the house and the forested area that rose up onto the mountains towering in the background.

"It's beautiful, Anna."

She turned down the lane. The late afternoon sun, which was barely above the mountain, cast the long shadows of evergreens across the open field that stretched well out in front of the house. The fresh smell of fir drifted into the cab of the truck.

"Can you smell that?" Anna asked.

"Yes."

"It is beautiful," she added. I detected a hint of trepidation.

We sat quietly for a moment as she slowly drove the truck down the shaded drive. "Too bad your mom and dad aren't home. It would be nice to see them."

"They'd love to see you. Daddy asks about you all the time. I'm sure I can convince them to come see you in the morning."

"I'd like that."

Anna pulled the truck up in front of a large red barn. "Come on," she said.

We got out and walked toward the barn. Horses were grazing nearby, enclosed in a freshly painted fence that disappeared into the distant woods. Anna opened the barn door and flipped the light switch. Several incandescent bulbs suspended from the rafters cast a warm yellow glow. The barn was unfinished on the inside – the supporting studs and beams were all exposed. Farm machinery was neatly placed around the hard-packed gravel floor – two tractors, a plow, a disc, a cultivator, a bush-hog, a wagon and a variety of other equipment. The machinery was perfectly painted.

"Most people leave that stuff outside," I said pointing to the equipment.

"Not Daddy."

"The _Colonel_ ," I said.

"The clothes are over here."

I followed Anna to a room in one corner of the barn. She opened the door, stuck her arm in and fumbled around for the light.

"It's always so dark in here," she said; "no window." She found the switch and turned on the light. "One of the workers was napping in here one day when I walked in feeling for the light switch. I woke him and he jumped up and scared me to death. Ever since then, I turn on the light before I walk in.

"There they are," she said, pointing to table standing against the wall. It was stacked high with an assortment of neatly folded clothing.

I stepped into the room and detected the faint smell of paint. We walked over and began rummaging through the clothes. Anna pulled out a pair of gray trousers. "Turn around," she said. I turned my back to her and she held the trousers to my waist. "These might fit." She laid them on the table.

I pulled out a gray jacket and tried it on.

"That fits perfect."

"It's heavy," I said. It was made of wool. There were no lapels, but it had a row of dull gold buttons down the front. I rotated my forearm inward and looked at the sleeve. "What are all these stripes?" I asked.

"I don't know, but you should take them off so you won't attract too much attention. I have nail clippers in the truck – we can use those. There are boots and shoes under the table."

I bent down and pulled out two pairs of boots. They were old and crusted with dirt. One even had a hole in the toe.

"I bet good boots were hard to find at the end of the war," I said.

"Everything was hard to find. The North basically stripped the South of its natural resources, including men and boys."

"Have you ever wondered what this country would be like if the South had won the war?" I asked.

" _This_ country wouldn't exist, but I prefer to let others do the speculating." Anna pulled out another pair of boots and said, "Try these on, maybe they'll fit."

I sat back on the dirt floor and pulled off my boot. "Seems there's no shortage of speculation," I said.

"What do you mean?" Anna asked as she turned one of the other boots upside down and struck the bottom of it with her hand a few times.

"Oh, I don't know," I replied. "I'm just thinking about some of the books I saw today."

Anna looked at me and asked, "What books?"

"In the sutlers' village. I can't remember any titles, but some suggested that the Civil War history we learned in school was biased, or incomplete, or something."

"History books _are_ biased and incomplete. That's the nature of historical research. In the hands of amateurs, it's down right dangerous." Anna looked down and struck the bottom of the boot again. "I've seen some frightening spiders around here." She turned the boot upright and blew in it a few times, then turned it upside down again and struck the heel. Satisfied that nothing was inside, she handed it to me. "So what other kind of books did you see?" she asked.

Recalling one title, I laughed and said, " _The Idiot's Guide to the Civil War_."

"You mean, _The Complete Idiot's Guide to the Civil War_."

"Ha-ha," I responded and slid the boot over my foot while Anna checked for spiders in the other boot. "A little loose, but it will do for the night. Let me try that one." The other boot fit loosely too. "I don't suppose you have a cap?"

"I don't see one here, but I think... " She stopped in mid-sentence. "You look through the Union uniforms and I'll be right back."

I stood up and found a single Union jacket on the table. I tried it on. The cuffs fell about an inch below my wrist and the cropped tail hung well below my waist. I took it off and set it down. Neatly folded, on a shelf above the table, were an assortment of blankets and what appeared to be a Confederate battle flag. I pulled the flag from the pile and unfolded it. A moment later Anna returned. She was shaping the brim of a well-worn, sweat-stained Confederate cap. "I thought I remembered seeing Zeb wear this. It was hanging on the shifter knob...." She looked up and fixed her gaze on the flag, "Oh God; where did that come from?"

"It was here on the shelf."

"That's one I missed."

"I still need a shirt," I said.

"No shirt here, I'm afraid, but I'll get one of Daddy's old work shirts."

"The Colonel won't mind?"

"Don't worry, I know how to handle him."

"Daddy's little girl," I teased.

"Come with me."

I started to fold the flag, but Anna said, "Leave it, I'll take care of it later."

I tossed the flag on the table. We left the barn and walked toward the house. "So who's Zeb?" I asked.

"Zeb's sort of a caretaker – we had another man, but Daddy asked him to leave for some reason. He never did say why. Daddy used to work with Zeb. He was a few weeks away from re-enlisting, and I guess Daddy made him a good offer." Anna hesitated then said, "He's a strange guy, but Daddy trusts him."

"What's so strange about him?"

"He's obviously well educated, but that's more than I can say for some of the people he hangs out with. Personally, I think there's more to Zeb than we all realize."

"What does your mom think?" I asked.

"She trusts Daddy."

"I trust your father," I said, thinking out loud.

Anna and I walked into the house. "Look around while I get you a shirt, or if you want, I'll give you the ten-cent tour when I come back down." Anna left me standing in the kitchen.

The kitchen matched my expectations, completely remodeled with care for maintaining the historical integrity of the home. I strolled from the kitchen, through the dining room, the foyer and the living room. There was a fireplace in each room except the foyer. I was surprised that I recognized a few antiques; it gave me a familiar and comfortable feeling. I admired the heart pine floors and fine craftsmanship in the trim molding and stairway.

I walked to the back of the living room and into a library. One thing the Colonel and I had in common was a love for books. The Colonel had a collection of the Harvard Classics bound in leather that dated to the early twentieth century. He possessed other literary classics, some of which were first editions. Sometime ago, when I was expressing my admiration for his collection, he said, "Read all these and you won't need a college education."

I left the library and entered a hallway that led past a bathroom and back to the kitchen. Halfway down the hall I stopped and returned to the foyer, where I waited for Anna. A moment later she called out, "I'm coming."

"No hurry. The house is amazing," I said as I watched her walk down the stairs. "It reminds me of your other home."

"I prefer the other home, especially in the winter. Nothing is more beautiful than a wet snowfall, with the pines around the shoreline laden with snow. I can still see the branches hanging low over the water's edge."

"Do you remember when we took the tractor out on the frozen creek?" I asked.

"Are you kidding? I still have the picture from the newspaper."

"Really."

"Yes," she replied.

"That was a lot of fun, pulling people on sleds and ice skates behind the tractor. It took the entire width of the creek to turn the tractor around. Were you there when Old Man Graham separated his shoulder?"

"No, but I remember hearing about it."

"Did I tell you how it happened?"

"No," Anna said.

"He was on ice skates, and I was towing him behind the tractor on a long ski rope. He swung wide while we were turning. He must have been going thirty miles an hour. The ski rope caught on one of those huge oil drums we had out there for fires. He tried to lift the rope at the last second, but it hung and whipped him forward. He must have done ten somersaults before he came to a stop."

"He was lucky he didn't break his neck."

"He was, but you should have seen it. When that drum tipped over, there were ashes and partially burned pieces of wood flying everywhere. Old Man Graham was a good sport about it. He just sat there on the ice and laughed for several minutes before we helped him up and took him to the doctor."

"I'll never forget that winter. It hasn't been that cold since."

I looked at Anna and smiled. "We had a lot of fun, didn't we?"

Anna stood on the bottom of the step and handed me the top to a pair of long underwear. "This will have to do. I've seen some reenactors wearing long underwear tops."

I took the shirt and said, "You surprise me a little, Anna."

"I surprise you?"

"Yes, you seem to be more like your old self."

"I guess I am now that Mom and Dad are better. But listen, we don't have time for this conversation. If you're going into that camp, there're a few things you should understand."

"Like what?"

"I've seen enough to know that some people are very serious about reenacting. It may be just a hobby for some, but for others it's a religion; and, if you start talking too much or seem too curious they might throw you out of there."

We walked through the dining room, into the kitchen, and out the same door we had entered. We jumped in the truck and Anna sped away. She opened the lid on the armrest, pulled out a pair of fingernail clippers and started again with her instructions, "Here, take these. Now listen, when you put those clothes on you'll look the part. But you're not a member of any regiment."

"Regiment?"

"Yes, most reenactors are members of a regiment or a company or something. Daddy explained it all to me once, but I wasn't very interested. The point is there aren't many loners out there. And, some reenactors take on a different persona – they represent an actual Civil War soldier, often one of their ancestors."

"Do you mean that I'm not supposed to be there unless I can verify that I had an ancestor who fought in the Civil War?"

Anna turned right at the end of her driveway, away from the battlefield, and said, "No, I don't think it's any kind of requirement. I'm sure there are plenty of people participating that don't have a clue about their ancestors. Some arbitrarily choose a persona. Others don't; they just show up." Anna paused, "The point I'm trying to make is that if you have a persona you might find it easier to mingle, especially since you're alone."

"Where are you going?"

"Out into the valley, just for a minute. It's pretty; I'd like you to see it. Besides, it will give you a chance to take off those stripes."

"Okay," I interjected, "How does Jedediah Beauregard sound?"

"As what?"

"My persona."

"If that's the best you can do," she said as she rolled her eyes. "Seriously though, you should be prepared in case you get asked if you're with a regiment."

"If I do?"

"I don't know – just say you haven't joined a regiment yet. Of course that might prompt someone to try to recruit you."

"If they do?"

"It's not a problem. If that happens, who knows what you might learn?"

"I'm not sure _what_ I can learn in one night, but I may as well go through with it, if I can't hang out with you."

Pulling threads from the stripes was a tedious job. I could have easily slid my knife between the stripes and the jacket fabric and taken them off in a few seconds. But my knife was in my backpack – which was in my tent – and I was too happy to be taking a relaxing ride with Anna. Between snipping the threads, I looked up and saw, as Anna promised, that Little Valley was indeed picturesque. The first thing I noticed was how Clear Creek, mostly lined with sycamores and the occasional locust, curved back and forth across flat pasture land that was covered with thick grass. The road crossed the creek in several places, each bridge recognizable by the guard rail and a slight rise in the road. A small white farmhouse and a dilapidated barn were nestled on a low ridge that paralleled the eastern mountains. Perhaps a hundred cattle were clustered near the base of the ridge. A farmer was driving his tractor away from a freshly turned plot of earth. His disc was raised well above the ground and dust clouds billowed behind the wheels.

I absorbed the scene, and was reminded of the way I had become disengaged from the daily life of the working class while hiking week after week. When we started hiking, memories of the people I had seen and places I had visited were vivid. The knowledge that I would not see friends and acquaintances for months fostered warm relations before I left. One friend threw me a party, others gave gifts and everyone wished me well. These memories were easily accessed, even irrepressible, during the first days of hiking, but they had faded until the events of a few weeks earlier seemed distant and hard to distinguish from those that occurred years before. Eventually, I almost forgot about existence in the "workaday" world. Instead days were filled with endless walking, blisters and calluses, bug bites, extremes in weather and a general discomfort that eventually begins to feel normal. I watched the farmer driving his tractor, and thought about the friends I hadn't seen since I boarded the plane to Atlanta.

Anna drove on quietly, her left hand resting lightly on the steering wheel and her right on the armrest between us. I wanted to take her hand, but didn't. She glanced at me and said, "I guess we should get back." I nodded. She downshifted and turned into the parking lot of a mom-and-pop convenience store. The name "White's General Store" was painted on the sign in front. As she turned the truck around, I quickly read signs in the store window. Between a green and orange neon sign that said "Lotto" and a hand-painted poster advertising a two-piece fried chicken dinner with battered potato wedges and a large soft drink, was another sign that had "Confederate Memorabilia" stenciled on it – "20% off" was scribbled at the bottom. On one side of the door was a four-foot wooden statue of a Native American with a full headdress and a tomahawk in his hand. On the other side was a statue of a smallish, black man dressed in white knickers and a red shirt holding a lantern. Next to the male statue was another figure – a plump black woman in a blue dress with a white turban wrapped around her head and a white apron around her waist. As we pulled away from the front of the store, I looked up and saw a Confederate flag flying overhead.

Anna rolled back onto the road and accelerated. I noticed that the house across the street had a flagpole in the front yard. Atop the pole was another Confederate flag. "Wow," I said without emphasis, "they sure like Rebels around here, don't they?"

"You noticed."

"Noticed. It's like another world."

"Another country."

"If I didn't know better I'd say you were trying to prove a point."

"About what?"

"Don't play innocent. We both know what you said about bigotry _thriving_ in Virginia."

"Did I say that?"

"Ah..."

"There are three or four more Confederate flags flying between here and Lynchburg. I didn't take the local emphasis on the Civil War seriously when we first moved here." Anna tightened her grip on the steering wheel. "But, the longer we live here... Newspaper articles about Civil War reenactments, historical pieces about someone's ancestor or a house where who knows what Confederate general slept. And the flags – the flags are everywhere. One doesn't have to live here long to realize that she's stepped into an entirely different culture. And, you know, it might all be okay if it weren't for the conversations I've overheard in places like that mom-and-pop back there. I'm living in the backyard of the final resting-place of the Confederate Army; and, I can't tell you how many times I've wanted to say 'get over it'."

"What do your folks say about it?"

"Mom doesn't like it. She said that for years she rarely thought about the inequities and ugliness that she witnessed in her childhood. She thought our generation had taken a big step forward. But, after we moved here, that changed. The flags, she says, are a constant reminder of the past." Anna laughed and said, "Now she's afraid that as she grows older and loses her mental 'faculties' the ugly phrases that she overheard as a child will slip out. Mom is one of least prejudiced people I know and the thought of degrading another person, even innocently, hurts her deeply."

"And your Dad?"

"I don't know. It's like he's moved on to another phase in life. I'm not sure he's even noticed." A few seconds later Anna added, "Given his military background he might have had a lot to say about it ten years ago."

I quietly agreed and I let her continue.

"But, he changed after his surgery. Something happens to the soul when they stop your heart from beating for that long." Anna sighed, "I don't know anymore, Ian. Maybe the stress of taking care of Mom and Dad has something to do with my dislike for this place."

"I'm sure it did."

On the way back to the reenactment site I finished removing the stripes from the gray jacket. Anna pulled the truck up in front of Mr. Squires' RV. She left the engine running, making it obvious that she was in a hurry, but as I sat there with my hand on the door handle I said, "I need to ask you something."

She turned toward me and smiled, but she did not speak.

"Is there someone else?"

She looked at me as though she wished I hadn't asked. "Someone else?" She sat there quietly, as if she was mentally rehearsing an answer.

"Yes Anna, another guy?"

"Well, yes and no."

"What's does that mean?"

"Well, I am having dinner with someone tonight. He's picking me up to meet Mom and Dad, but I don't know how serious it is."

"You don't know?"

Anna looked into my eyes and said, "Ian, he's a nice guy. He was such a help to Mom and Dad."

"Is he a doctor?"

"Therapist."

"Oh. I see."

"I'm not sure you do, but we'll have to talk about it later." Anna looked out the windshield. "How about _you_ , Ian?"

"No one," I said.

I opened the door and stepped out of the truck. The light of day was giving way to darkness. I turned and looked at Anna. "I'd forgotten how much I enjoy your company," I said. She smiled and nodded as I closed the door. I stood there and watched her drive away, noticing for the first time the red-and-white temporary tags on the truck and two patches of glue residue on either side of the back window. I thought the residue might be from Confederate flag stickers and decided that the truck had to be the same one Max and I rode in when we came down from the mountain.
Chapter XII

6:40 pm

"Lover boy," Max said to me as I stepped inside the RV. "Anna looks great, doesn't she?"

"Yes, she does," I said half-heartedly.

"That was enthusiastic," said Max. When I did not respond, he said, "right," and changed the subject. "So, the Foxhartes own this land?"

"Yes," I said. "You should see their house."

"Nice, huh?"

"It's a renovated old brick home. Beautiful place."

"By the way," said Max, "your clothes are dry _and_ folded." He pointed to a stack of clothes lying on the dinette.

"Thanks, but I won't be needing those just now. I'm joining the Confederate Army."

"Confederate Army." After a lengthy pause, Max asked, "Was this your idea or Anna's?"

"Why do you ask?"

"It sounds like her," he answered.

"It was _our_ idea, I guess. She said she'd like to do it herself; that's how I got the idea. There seems to be different opinions about reenacting. So, I thought I'd see for myself."

Max smirked and shook his head, making it clear that he'd heard enough. Then he said, "Owen said we can sleep here tonight."

"You sure that's okay? I mean, he was really tying one on."

"It's okay. He didn't drink any more after you and Anna left."

"Where is he now?"

"Junior showed up and they went to the grocery store."

"How long have they been gone?"

"I don't know. Long enough that they could be back any minute."

"I've got to hurry then. I'd prefer not to see Owen's son, especially after I get this uniform on." I held up the jacket and other clothes that Anna had given me. "I'm afraid I'd have a hard time answering any questions he might ask."

"Perhaps he'd show you around," Max said sarcastically.

"Funny – I think I'd rather go by myself. I'm less likely to get stuck with people I'd rather not be stuck with."

"I see," Max said as if he doubted my logic. "Where'd you get the uniform?"

"The Foxhartes."

"The Foxhartes?"

"Yeah, it seems people leave them behind all the time."

"Oh."

"I'm going to change." I walked back to the bathroom.

When I returned Max was still sitting and watching television. "Hooked again, Max?"

"I haven't watched television in weeks."

"That's a good thing."

"Owen has over three hundred channels," he said.

"I suppose you're going to watch them all before we leave tomorrow." Max's silence made my remark feel like a cheap shot. "I better go."

"Don't get caught," he said, still staring at the television. "They hang spies."

"That's what Anna said."

Max looked up and said, "Then I suppose you better listen – Billy Yank."

"Want to come with me?" I asked.

"No," he said emphatically.

I started for the door but stopped short, troubled by an uneasy feeling. I suspected that I was about to enter into an almost sacred place where, if others understood how I came to be there, I might not be welcome. Perhaps as an attempt to find a way to justify what I was about to do, I asked, "Max, what do you think I'll find out – out there?"

Max looked up from the television and said, "I've been thinking about that."

"And?"

"Oh, you may learn a little history, but other than that, I don't think you'll find out much more than you already know."

"Why's that?" I asked.

"You'll only be there for a few hours. What can you really learn in a few hours? People out there are like people anywhere else; they say 'Hi, how are you?' and engage in small talk but you won't learn much from them."

"What am I trying to learn?"

"You tell me?" said Max.

"I don't know," I replied. "For one thing, I'm just curious. I mean the whole idea of people coming together to reenact Civil War battles is intriguing – the history, I guess." I could not think of anything better to say.

"The history." Max made me feel like he wasn't satisfied with my answer.

I shrugged and added, "I don't know. Some things just don't seem to add up."

He cut his eyes at me, "Like what?"

"Well, on the one hand, it just looks like a celebration – a fad – that will lose popularity in a few years. But when I look at those newspaper clippings sitting over there," I pointed to the stack of papers setting in the kitchen, "and when I look at some of the books in Ms. Thompson's little bookstore, I start to wonder. Then I ride out into the valley with Anna, and I see Confederate flags all over the place – I find it even more troubling. On the other hand, knowing that there's a Union army and several black reenactors makes me think that my first impression is the right one – it's all just a way to get away for a while, like a hobby." I stood silent for a moment, before I added, "So, I guess I'm really _just curious_."

"Nothing wrong with that," said Max. "But, like I said, don't expect to learn much. People often hide their motives, especially when they're involved in something controversial."

"Controversial? Come on, Max. What are you hiding?"

Max continued, "You're probably too young to remember this, but there was a lot of heavy stuff that went down in Charleston when we lived there in the '60s."

"Like what?"

"Like the Civil Rights movement, integration, riots, you name it," Max answered. "I don't remember all the details, but a judge who lived on our street was presiding over a court case that had something to do with desegregation. What I do remember is that he had National Guard soldiers camped out at his house for weeks. It seemed like everyday, late in the afternoon, a line of cars would parade by his house with people hanging out the windows cursing, some of them waving Confederate flags."

"You know, I remember that," I said, wondering whether or not my memories of standing outside the judge's home listening to his son talk about the National Guard soldiers were real. "Did he have children?"

"Huh," replied Max.

"Did his son knife the tires on the National Guard's Jeep?"

Max laughed, "How-in-the-hell do you remember that?"

"I don't know," I said. "But that's what I remember most; though I do remember watching the cars go by. And, I remember seeing footage on the news. Blacks standing on one side of a fence arguing with whites that were standing on the other. They seemed _almost_ violent."

Max corrected me. "No, they _were_ violent. Things got ugly. I remember it well, _too well_."

"Now that I think about it, I even remember the first black student in my classroom at Harbortown Elementary. I distinctly remember the principal escorting her into the class and seating her in the _back_ of the room."

"A lot of silly things went on back then."

"What else?" I asked. It was interesting to listen to Max talk about events that I could only recall in the vaguest way.

"Do you remember Queen's Branch Academy?"

"Yeah," I answered, "but that's in Virginia."

"Doesn't matter," he replied. "Do you know why it was established?"

"No."

"It and many others like it were started back in the '60s. White people didn't want their kids going to desegregated schools, so they started private schools like Queen's Branch – no blacks allowed. In some places they even shut down the public school systems."

"Really."

"For several years some counties didn't offer any kind of public education. In some places, right here in of Virginia, there are middle-aged black men and women who have very little formal education – only because the public schools in the county they grew up in were closed down."

"For how long?"

"Five, six, seven years."

"Queen's Branch closed down didn't it?"

"Not exactly – it's now called The Blanchard School. Some guy, named Blanchard, donated thirty million dollars to keep it going forever."

"Is it integrated?"

"Barely." Max sat up on the edge of his seat and said, "Get this – several years ago I interviewed for a job there. I go in and the man tells me the job doesn't pay much, but then he asks me if I have kids. I said, 'Yes, I have two.' Then he leans forward and asks me quietly, as though he didn't want anyone to hear, 'Do they go to the county school?' I answered, 'yes'. Then he asked in the same quiet voice, 'Are you happy with the education they're getting?' Then he winked and said, 'You do understand what I'm asking you, Mr. Hamilton.' Now I could never prove anything by the words the man used, but it seemed obvious to me that he was a racist."

"Seriously?" I asked Max, although I already knew the answer.

"Listen, Ian, I really don't know what you might find out, out there. Obviously, reenactments seem tailor-made for guys like that; and, I don't doubt that there are some like him around here."

I nodded.

"That guy we saw when we first got here, you know, the Confederate officer. For all we know, he could be like the man I talked to at the Blanchard School. But guys like that are smart, very smart. They're not going to walk up to you and give you an application to join a white supremacist group without knowing something about you first."

"No, I guess not."

A few seconds later, Max added, "To be fair, I guess we should consider the other side of this thing. The guys I know that reenact, they don't seem prejudiced, at least not too the degree that we've been talking about – not even close. I work with some of them, sit with them at ballgames and go to parties at their homes. From what I've seen the color of a man's skin doesn't matter to them.

"I know one guy who's got a room in his house filled with pictures and documents and other things that belonged to his ancestors. The room is like a museum. He's got a letter that a woman wrote to her husband while he was off fighting in the Revolutionary War. He's got pictures of uncles and grandparents who fought in World Wars, Korea and Vietnam, not to mention the Civil War. He's got pieces of uniforms, discharge papers, medals and a ton of other stuff. He says that war-related artifacts are sometimes easier to come by. People write more letters, save official documents..."

Max's words continued to pour over me as I stood by the door trying to imagine what I would encounter as I mingled among the reenactors. I shifted back and forth between two different images. In one, I was sitting in front of a small campfire where men were talking about the hardships and gruesome realities endured by their ancestors. These men spoke reverently and in great detail. In the other image, there was a raging bonfire with a rapidly rising column of red-hot embers surrounded by men pumping Confederate flags in the air and shouting slogans like "The South will rise again" and "Long live Dixie." The second image frightened me and I considered taking the Confederate uniform off and spending the evening with Max, watching a movie.

"So," I heard Max say, "you better hurry. Owen and Junior will be back any minute."

I looked up and said distractedly, "I've got another question."

"What's that?"

"What's it been like for you?"

"What do you mean?" asked Max.

"Growing up in a time when things changed so much."

"Between the races?"

"Yeah."

Max hesitated and his eyes shifted around, as if he was looking for an answer. Finally, he sighed and said, "Didn't think about it so much when I was a kid. But somehow, as I've gotten older, it's all seems more complicated. I wonder what it was like for Mom and Dad. It can't be easy to put one's experiences behind and start all over. Yet, they seemed to change with the times. Maybe they understood all along that race should never be a basis for how people are treated, despite what they might have learned as kids growing up in the South."

"Umm,"

Suddenly agitated, Max said, "Stop asking me all these questions."

"Just one more."

"What now?"

"What was the name of the woman who helped Mom out around the house?"

Max pulled back. "When we lived in Charleston?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Betty," he answered softly. He lowered his head and the same expression I had seen on his face that morning, when he was sitting by the fire whistling, returned to his face. "I didn't think you remembered her," he said.

"I didn't know that I did." I stepped out of the RV and walked toward the Confederate camp.
Chapter XIII

7:00 pm

Little Valley was now immersed in the shadows of twilight. The orange glow along the western ridge provided barely enough light for me to easily see my way across the open field. Earlier in the day, when Max and I walked into the reenactment site for the first time, I had noticed the circular arrangement of the tents in the Confederate camp. I wondered if the scene was authentic – the army before me appeared to be an easy target for Union cannons or sharpshooters positioned on the distant hill.

At dusk the camp became more inviting with its muskets still neatly stacked in tripods next to the fires, the many white canvas tents reflecting the flickering yellow flames and the shadows of men sitting around talking and smoking. The steady wind that was blowing earlier in the day had settled and the Confederate flag now was wavering gently in the breeze. I looked for an inconspicuous place to climb the fence and enter unseen, but I suddenly realized that I felt confident enough to walk through an opening where a man was sitting on a rail.

"Evening," the man said.

"Evening," I replied and stopped to talk. He appeared to be in his mid to late twenties. He was lean with broad, square shoulders, a clean-shaven face, and light hair. He was at least six feet tall. He struck me as the kind of guy one would choose first in a pick-up game of football or basketball, just because he looked athletic.

"Nice uniform – _authentic_ looking."

I assumed his remark was a compliment and responded, "Thanks, it's just something a friend of mine threw together." I pulled on the collar and said, "The shirt's not quite right, but the rest works."

"How long you been working on that beard?"

"Couple of months."

"Looks just like what I imagine a soldier's beard would look like. Like you've been out in the woods for a few months."

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Officially my name is Ben Foster, but for a few days each year it's Jedediah Powell."

I laughed, then stopped myself and said, "Sorry, it's just that I was recently considering the name Jedediah for myself." I didn't want to explain how I came up with that name, so I quickly asked, "Was Jedediah Powell an ancestor?"

"Yes, a great-great-great uncle – on my mother's side. He fought with the 2nd Virginia Infantry."

"How long you been doing this?"

"Couple a years," said Ben. "How about you?"

"First time."

"Are you with a regiment?" he asked.

"No, I just arrived today. My brother and a few friends are here too, but they're not reenacting." I silently reasoned that my response was only a slight stretch of the truth since I was, for the moment, playing the part. "I really don't know much about reenactments."

Ben reached into a haversack and pulled out a couple of strips of dried meat. "Care for some jerky?"

"No thanks," I replied.

"Reenacting means different things to different people," he began.

"So I've heard." I paused to let him continue.

"For me it's, well, personal, but I try not to make a big deal out of it. I've got the basic uniform and equipment and I come once a year."

"So how'd you get started?"

"Poppa, that was my grandfather, and I used to talk a lot. I loved to hear him talk about his past. He was a retired Air Force major – saw a lot in his life. He served in World War II – that is, he piloted a bomber over enemy territory eighteen times. He also served in the Korean War. When he talked about his war service, heck, when he talked about anything, it came alive for me. I guess I think in pictures, you know. And Poppa, he knew how to draw pictures with his words. Anyhow, before he died he asked me to piece together our family history. He gave me some good leads."

I was instantly impressed with Ben's sincerity and what apparently was a strong relationship with his grandfather. Not many people would take the time Ben had taken to indulge an aging grandparent's need to bridge the gap between generations. I listened closely.

"He first told me all about his father and some about his grandfather. Then he took me to a church in Williamsburg and showed me the name of one of my ancestors on a plaque. I remember walking down the aisle with him; he had one hand on my arm and held his cane in the other. We got about halfway down the aisle when he stopped. He lifted his cane and said, 'Look over here.' We walked toward the plaque. 'Get me close,' he said, 'my eyesight's not good anymore.' We stepped up to the plaque and Poppa lifted his cane. 'See that name there, that's your kin. I don't know much about him, but I do know he's your kin.' I looked and saw the name John Powell. When we walked out of the church he said to me, 'Find out what you can about our family, and keep me posted. It's the last thing this old man wants.' As a sort of postscript he added, 'Some of it you won't like and some of it you'll be damned proud of.'"

"Did you ask him what he meant by that?"

"Sort of, I asked him if he had more to tell me." Ben squeezed his lips together and looked into the camp. "Let me ask you something," he said.

"Sure."

Ben lowered his voice. "You're not prejudiced, are you?"

Ben had given himself the answer he wanted but I responded anyway, "I'd like to think that I'm not, but to be honest, I think it's a question we all should ask ourselves. We may not be conscious of it, but we're probably all a little prejudice. I don't know if that makes any sense."

"Makes perfect sense. That's what I'd say about myself."

I nodded and smiled, thinking that he was comfortable enough to tell me more about his ancestors.

He reflected for a moment before he began talking again. "There's actually two stories that I find interesting; and, I've only got minor hints of the first one. Poppa told me that if I looked back far enough I might find some evidence of 'black-birding'.

"Black-birding?"

"I don't know where that term came from, but it's another name for slave trading. Illegal slave trading, I think."

"Slave trading," I said in a hushed tone.

"Something to be proud of, huh," Ben said with distinct sarcasm. "Well I looked into it and sure enough one of my ancestors was involved in slave trading. After a lot of research I actually found a ledger. The ledger confirmed that a J. Rogers Powell delivered slaves to Charleston. This was in the late 1700's. Not something that Poppa or I was happy to learn."

"Guess not," I said as I envisioned a ship sailing into the harbor of Charleston. For a moment I imagined what it would be like to be down in the bowels of a slave ship with a crowded mass of half-naked slaves dehydrated and starving. I shivered slightly and hoped that Ben had not noticed.

"But there _are_ other relatives," continued Ben. "In my great-grandparents' house I found a diary among a stack of books in the attic that gave a brief history of Jedediah Powell. According to the diary, which was written by my great-grandmother, Jedediah inherited eight slaves from his father-in-law. The entry in the diary went something like; 'Learning of his inheritance he loaded the slaves on his wagon, took them to Pennsylvania, fed them, clothed them, split the inheritance money between them and freed them.' I found it interesting that he took them to Pennsylvania. But according to what I read, Jedediah felt that former slaves would not be able to prosper in Virginia."

"Do you know what became of them?"

"No. Part of me would like to find out and part of me would not."

"Why not?" I asked.

"I've read that slaves that were taken into non-slave states and given their freedom were sometimes lynched. Seems that white craftsman and mill workers feared that blacks would take their jobs."

Ben and I were quiet for a moment. I envisioned eight former slaves rejoicing over their newfound freedom. Unfortunately, that vision was followed by an image of a black man hanging from a tree. I wondered if Ben was having the same thoughts.

"So, did Jedediah fight in the war?" I asked.

"Yes."

"For the Confederacy?"

"For the Confederacy. He died right here on this battlefield in 1865. Two of his son's fought here too. After the battle they traded their guns for a horse, aiming to take Jedediah's body home to be buried. They strapped the body across the back of the horse and set out walking. But a couple of days into the journey, the stench of the body was too much for his son's and they buried him in a cemetery in Richmond. Some years later his body was exhumed and returned home."

"Ah, so _that's_ why you're here."

"Mostly. It's for my grandfather too. When he heard the story about Jedediah and his sons he said that I should find a way to honor their memory. Coming out here once a year is the best way I've found so far."

I wondered if there were others like Ben out on the battlefield. The time he'd shared with his grandfather and the many hours he spent fulfilling his grandfather's wish tied him to the past. He'd found out the good and the bad and he'd chosen reenacting as a way to honor the good. Thinking about Jedediah's sacrifice, I said, "He almost made it, didn't he?"

"Who?" Ben asked.

"Jedediah – the war was almost over when he fought in this battle."

"Almost."

"So," I asked, "do you think your grandfather already knew about your ancestors?"

"I think he had heard some of it, but he didn't know that it had been recorded. I think he just wanted to make sure that it was passed down."

"I wished I had the patience to do something like that."

"Actually, it was a fascinating experience," said Ben. "Hours and hours of digging through old documents in a musty county clerk's office or the basement of a library. Fascinating stuff."

Ben and I sat quietly on the rail for a few minutes and watched the sparks from a nearby campfire rise into the night. A waning quarter moon had risen over the mountain to the east. The air was cool, but comfortable.

"So, why are you hanging out here all alone?" I asked.

"I'm on guard duty."

"Guard duty," I responded, realizing that Ben might have the authority to stop me from entering the camps.

"Yes."

"You mean I'm supposed to have permission to enter?"

"Supposedly, but you're okay," he said reassuringly. "Some people might not let you in, but as far as I'm concerned anyone that looks as much like a hardcore as you do can go right in."

I was surprised to hear that Ben thought I looked like a hardcore, but decided against probing for any explanations. Instead, I was preoccupied with the thought that someone like the sneering officer with the red sash around his waist might show up and ask for my papers. I decided to "hide" myself among the other reenactors inside the camp before someone came to relieve Ben. "Well, I think it's time for me to move on." I stuck out my hand and said, "I think Jedediah Powell and your grandfather would be proud."

"Proud?"

"Proud of you."

Ben dropped his head slightly and smiled. Then he quietly said, "Thanks." We shook hands and I walked away, leaving him sitting on the fence.
Chapter XIV

7:20 pm

I left Ben and slowly walked toward a campfire burning just beyond the perimeter of the outer circle of tents. There were at least ten men seated around the fire. I wasn't sure if I should approach, but before I had a chance to decide someone said, "Take a seat, stranger."

Realizing I'd been spotted, I stepped forward and said, "Sorry to bother you."

A softly smiling man, sitting on the other side of the fire said, "Forget it. Have a seat if you like."

The two men seated just in front of me shifted, making ample room between them for me to sit in front of the fire. Someone else rolled a log into the open space and the man who had first spoken to me said, "That one looks comfortable."

"Thanks," I said and sat down. Two sizable logs had just been added to the burning remains of many other pieces of wood that radiated heat from the fire.

"Haven't seen you around here," said the smiling man.

"No, just got here today."

"Ever been here before?"

"No, not in this lifetime anyway," I answered. I was trying to be funny but my response was met with blank stares.

"So, what brings you here?" the smiling man asked.

"Well –" I hesitated. "Curiosity – more than anything else."

Another reenactor spoke out. "Curiosity," he said as though he didn't trust me.

"Lighten up," said the smiling man. "Don't mind Dexter, he comes off like he don't like no one." I looked at Dexter and he reacted with a toothy grin.

I nodded and said, "Dexter," trying to sound respectful.

Others that were sitting around the fire laughed until Dexter leaned to the side and farted. The man sitting next to him stood up and said, "Dexter, you stinking moron, this is a Civil War reenactment. If you want'a do _Blazing Saddles,_ go somewhere else."

"My name's Bob," said the smiling man. I assumed he was some kind of leader within the group. "You've got to forgive my brother. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was a little touched." Bob then introduced me to other men sitting around the campfire. "Course you won't remember their names," he said, "but it don't matter no how. So, what's your name?"

"Ian."

"Are you with a regiment, Ian?" asked Bob.

"Ah, no. No I'm not."

"Well, don't let that bother you," he replied. "There's others like you hanging around. Sometimes it takes a while to find a group of guys you're comfortable with."

I nodded and said, "Sounds reasonable."

The man sitting next to me tapped me on the arm and asked, "Care for some jerky?"

"No thanks," I replied.

"Good stuff," he said. "Dried venison." He waggled a piece of meat in my face.

"Sure, why not?" I took the jerky and bit off a piece. I was pleasantly surprised by the sweet flavor.

Bob spoke again, "We represent the Virginia 1202nd. There's about twenty more of us." He motioned toward the other camp. "Some of them are serving the Union army this weekend. Others couldn't make it."

I turned my head toward the Union camp and could see the flickering light of scattered campfires. "So reenactors will, shall I say, cross over to the other side?"

"Only the traitors," said Dexter.

Bob added, "We wouldn't have reenactments in the South if it wasn't for the guys from our side willing to put on a Union uniform. Not all reenactors will do it, but we don't mind."

"So, how many reenactments do you get to in a year?"

"Go to as many as we can – usually two or three. Good chance to hop on our hogs and get away from it all for a weekend. Life kinda slows down, you know – no TV, no traffic, not much in the way of modern distractions, good company to sit around and chat with – kind of lifestyle that's fast becoming a thing of the past."

"You guys own Harleys?"

"Most of us do," said Bob.

"How about you?" Dexter asked.

"No, no motorcycle, just a good pair of hiking boots."

"Reminds me of what goes on at night in a huntin cabin," said the man seated to the right of me. His name was Flapp; I presumed it was because his ears were extraordinarily large. One couldn't help but notice the three studded earrings in his left ear. "Fellas just sittin around shootin the breeze, ya know."

Another man added, "If this _was_ hunting season, I sure as hell wouldn't be here."

"Me either," said Dexter.

I glanced around at each of the men's faces. Dexter was still looking at me as though he wished I would go away. "Do you ever bring your families?" I asked.

A few men nodded. One said, "Hell no."

"How about you," asked Flapp, "your family here?"

"Just my brother; he's visiting with a friend right now, though."

"Where you from?" Bob asked.

"I grew up in Tidewater. Lived in South Carolina and other places, but I consider myself a Virginian."

"Good choice," said Dexter.

Bob added, "See, he ain't so bad." I didn't know if he was talking to me or Dexter.

Dexter asked, "How long you been workin on that there beard?"

"A few months," I replied.

"Damn good beard. Good outfit too. If'n you was a more wiry sort of guy I'd say you was a hardcore."

"Hardcore," I repeated, recalling Ms. Thompson's description.

"Do you know what a hardcore is?" asked Dexter.

"Yeah, sort of." I said.

"You don't sound too sure about that. I'll tell ya what a hardcore is." Dexter continued, "Hardcore's the kinda guy who wants everything about reenactments to be authentic – right down to the dirt. Why, they'd use real bullets if'n they'd let 'em. But we don't. Ain't too many hardcores here this time on account so many of us brought tents. By the time this battle took place in 1865 there wasn't many tents to be had by the Rebels. Anyway, there's a few hardcores out yonder spoonin tonight."

"Spooning?" I responded.

"Yeah, when it gets cold these guys kinda snuggle up to one another to keep warm. They don't get faggy or nothin, they just do it cause they say that's what soldiers done to survive. Wanna talk to somebody bout what it was really like in the war – talk to a hardcore. Them boys, they know things about the war no one else does. I reckon I'm right when I say they don't like us being here cause we're not so picky. They call people like us, farbs."

I hesitated to ask, but I couldn't resist, "Farb?"

"Yeah, farb," replied Dexter. "I don't know exactly what farb stands for, but it's basically someone who don't care much 'bout being authentic. People like us, we're just here to have a good time. We don't care nothin much about being authentic. But the hardcores, they know if it weren't for us they wouldn't have reenactments to come to, cause there ain't enough of 'em. So they tolerate us."

Flapp interrupted. "If I didn't know better, Dexter, I'd say you've had too much to drink."

"I ain't drank nothing since dinner, Flapp. Drank water then."

"Go on with your story, Dexter," said Flapp.

"I ain't telling no story, I'm just trying to tell our friend here 'bout hardcores and farbs and spoonin."

Bob said, "I think he's got the picture."

"You want a story, I'll tell you a story. But I weren't tellin our friend here no story."

I thought I would like Dexter to tell "a story," although I felt that I was the only one. Before I had a chance to be disappointed, a young guy sitting next to Bob said, "Tell us a story, Dexter."

I might have believed that the young man was just being considerate if the rest of the group hadn't responded to his request with a simultaneous groan. I sensed that the group had heard enough of Dexter's stories. But it was too late. Bob tried to stop Dexter, but he insisted on telling a story.

"Well, this here story's 'bout my great grandfather on my mama's side, William Roe – most people called him Daddy Roe. Now, Daddy Roe, he was a hard man. Folks that knew him says that near 'bout every other word that come out'a his mouth was a curse word. G.D. this and to hell with that. I reckon he was that way cause he warn't a big man, but he always had a big man's job. He worked on the water all his life. Lived on Mary's Island, which – case you don't know – is just northeast off the mouth of the Potomac. It's only four miles long and one mile wide; 'bout half of its marsh land, filled with skeeters in the summertime. Back in Daddy Roe's day, the only way on and off the island was by boat or ferry.

"Anyhows, Daddy Roe, he owned a couple of work-boats – used 'em for crabbin, fishin and oysterin. He always had a bunch a fellas workin for him – big round-shouldered guys, the kinda shoulders one gets when he spends days workin with shaft tongs – these were the kinda men that wouldn't take much crap off nobody. So Daddy Roe, he had to be a hard man to keep fellas like that from gettin out'a hand.

"Hard as he was though, he had a reputation for being fair and for standin up for what he believed in. If'n I'm not mistaken he was a deacon in the church."

As Dexter talked he made a variety of gestures with his hands. When he described the way Daddy Roe looked, he used his hands to illustrate size or shape. He made a fist when he described a characteristic like "hard man".

Everyone in the group looked intently at Dexter as he continued. "Well, at one time Mary's Island was integrated – meanin both black and white folks lived there. That was way back during the first part of the 1900s, I think. As you might 'magine, back then there was lotta whites folks that didn' care much for havin blacks livin on the island. They was always blamin anything that went wrong on the blacks. Somebody steal somethin, it was the blacks that done it; somebody get scared by somethin in the night, it was blacks trying to get 'em. Talk went on like that for years. Then one day a white man accuses a black man of cuttin him up and robbin him a few days before Christmas. The white man went around tellin other white folks his story, gettin 'em all stirred up like they was ready to lynch somebody.

"Now you'll have to forgive me, but here's where the story gets messed-up. For a long time, I believed that Daddy Roe rounded up all the blacks and told them that they had twenty-four hours to get off the island, and twenty-four hours later they was all gone. That's the story my grandmother told me.

"One day, though, I come across some old newspapers in my Granddaddy's attic. This Granddaddy was Daddy Roe's son-in-law. When I read these newspapers, the old story about Daddy Roe runnin all the blacks off the island didn' add up. As best I could tell a white man was cut up and a black man was later accused and put in jail for it. A paper dated some weeks later had a short article about how all the blacks had left Mary's Island.

"I was confused, so I asked my Granddaddy 'bout it. He told a different story than grandma. He said that the trial was typical of the times. An all-white jury saw a white man who'd been cut up, tellin that he'd been knifed by the black man. Course the black man said he didn' do it, but the all-white jury didn' believe him. Granddaddy said that after the trial Daddy Roe overheard one of the white men talkin bout how he'd lied, that he and the other white man had been drunk and got in a fight with each other – things got a little out'a hand and one cut the other up.

"Now while the black man was in jail, some of the whites on the island started talking 'bout lynchin him when he gets out. The whole thing kinda snowballs, and the next thing you know lotta black folks on the island start gettin death threats. Meantime, the black man gets out'a jail, goes home to Mary's Island, hears that some white folks is out to get him. So he gets drunk and runs off into the woods; scared to death I reckon.

"At some point, Daddy Roe, he gets wind of what's goin on and meets with a group of blacks at a church. Granddaddy said that they decided that the safest thing to do was to leave the island. So that night Daddy Roe and my other great-grandfather, Granddaddy's father, run several boatloads of black folk, with all the belongings they could carry, over to the mainland. Course the black man that's in the most danger, he's nowhere to be found. My great-grandfather later finds him hidin in the church attic. Granddaddy said his father had a hard time convincing the man to come with him. Seems the black man was afraid he was takin him into some kinda trap. But they finally got him on the boat and took him across to the mainland.

"I asked Granddaddy why someone didn't just tell the law that the two white men had lied. He said that back then it wouldn'a done much good. The law weren't often friendly to blacks." Dexter looked around and said, "I guess that's about it."

Instantly, Flapp asked, "Dexter, are you proud of your great-grandfather?"

"I'm proud of all my great-grandfathers."

"But shouldn't they have stood up to the other whites on the island?"

"If'n you're talkin 'bout absolute right and wrong, I suppose they could have. But the way I see it, there was many things that had to be considered."

"What do you mean – 'many things'?" asked Flapp.

I knew what Dexter meant by "many things" and so did everyone else sitting around the fire, including Flapp. Daddy Roe took a risk by getting involved in the first place. Perhaps his first concern was for everyone's safety, including his own, his family's, and that of the "blacks" and even the "whites". Daddy Roe did his best to make sure no one got hurt – and no one did. Sure, he could have taken a stronger stand. In fact, one might argue that he should have. One might even argue that he should have disclosed the truth and been prepared to fight, literally, to bring justice to the "white" men and to uphold the rights of the "blacks" to stay on Mary's Island, but he did _act_ , and he acted in a sensible way. I couldn't help but wonder what would have happened to all the Jewish people in Cracow if Oskar Schindler had taken the kind of absolute stand that Flapp was alluding to against the Nazis. Mary's Island was no prison camp, but in the early twentieth century I'm sure it wasn't above bloodshed over racial issues. I'm sure there was more to Daddy Roe than we would ever know, good and bad.

At that moment, I felt sorry for Dexter. It seemed that Flapp had backed him into a corner. But Dexter surprised me.

"Look, Flapp," he said. "Prejudice is a lot like a flower bulb."

"What?" asked Flapp, who, like the rest of us, had no idea what Dexter was talking about.

"Prejudice is a lot like lookin at a flower bulb – sometimes it's hard to know what kind of flower is inside all the layers around it. The layers is things like color, like how much money or education somebody's got, like different languages and religion. And maybe you see things like the way laborers look at the bosses or Republicans look at Democrats when they're watching a presidential nomination – Democrats can't say nothing right cause Republicans know they're Democrats – how would they act if they didn't? Works the other way around too. You guys know what I'm talkin about. Some people don't like me, Flapp. They're prejudiced against me cause I'm a big, goofy looking guy that talks funny. The way I see it, those things about me that's different are just some of my layers. That's the way people are, they can't get past other people's layers and see what's inside. You can't tell if you're looking at a tulip or a wild onion if you look too closely at the skin."

Flapp was shaking his head. The motion of his ears made it even more apparent why he was called Flapp. Finally he said, "You've been watching too many movies, Dex."

"It don't matter so long as I watch the right ones."

"Dexter," said Bob, "you're a hell-of-a-lot smarter than I thought."

"I've been tryin to tell ya, Bob."

"Guess I should've been listening," he replied.

Dexter's story and the friendly bantering among them made me realize that this was a group of men who enjoyed each other's company. Perhaps it was a common interest in the Civil War that brought them together, but I sensed that could have just as easily been something else. Perhaps all that was needed was an opportunity to sit around a campfire eating jerky and sharing stories. I wondered what would happen if the popularity of reenactments began to wane – would I encounter this group of men camping next to a lake or on a mountain or in a cabin somewhere?
Chapter XV

7:45 pm

Someone standing behind me asked, "Dexter, have you been talking about Daddy Roe again?"

I turned to look and there stood two black men dressed in blue uniforms. I was certain they were two of the men involved in the hand-to-hand combat during the battle earlier in the day. One of the men looked down at me and said, "Where'd this hardcore come from?"

"He ain't no hardcore, not yet anyway," said Bob.

"He _ain't_ ," the same man said before he bent down, shook my hand and introduced himself. "My name is Reginald, people call me Reg. This is Darin," he said pointing to the man standing beside him, "and if you'll excuse me for a second I need to do a little follow-up with – _Bob_." Reg looked up and said, " _Bob_ – if he's not a hardcore, then how do you explain that fine beard and uniform he's wearing?"

Everyone turned towards Bob to hear his answer. "This is his first reenactment, he hardly knew what a hardcore was until we explained."

"Come on, Bob, you know a man doesn't choose to be a hardcore, hardcore chooses him."

"Reg, are you going to start with that hardcore business again? You're as bad as Dexter."

Flapp leaned over and said to me, "Bunch of us work together and these two go on like this all the time. The other day Reg started talking about how he sees hardcores showing up everywhere. As he puts it 'they can't help themselves.'"

Bob looked at me and said, "Reg and Darin are part of our regiment. They're registered with us and they pay our dues, but they won't wear a Confederate uniform."

"Not hard to understand why. In fact," I said raising my voice so Reg could hear me, "I'm surprised they don't find the whole reenactment thing offensive."

Reg responded by twirling his finger around as if including all the men sitting around the fire. "I don't find this offensive, but now" – he pointed toward the other end of camp where the large tent was positioned – "I might find something over there offensive. That's a different regiment over there – that's the _neo-Confederate_ army.

"Darin and I work with most of these guys; they're the ones that got us into this stuff. They've tried to get us to go hunting with them, but I told them I'm not too interested in being around when the real bullets start flying."

"So, how did they convince you?" I asked Reg.

"One day at work Bob, Flapp, and a couple of other guys were talking about reenactments. They didn't know it, but when I heard that word I began listening, _very_ carefully. I had always associated reenactments with hate groups, but I was confident that these guys, guys I'd been working with for years, were not members of some kind of hate group. And as I listened, I didn't hear anything indicating that I was wrong. Later that day I asked Bob what they were talking about. After a long explanation – I required a long explanation – Bob said to me, 'Reg, why don' t you come along next time?' My immediate reply was 'Honky, you're crazy.' But, I said I'd think about it.

"That day when I got home I started doing some research on the Internet. Like you, I didn't expect to find anyone like _me_ involved in reenacting. I started my search and at first I didn't care too much for what I saw, but then I typed the words – African-American Civil War reenact. I got a long list of hits. I double-clicked one and the next thing I knew I was reading about the 54th Massachusetts. That's the regiment that was portrayed in the movie _Glory_. I read on and found out that there's a group of 54th Massachusetts' reenactors. Blacks only, that was an interesting twist.

"Anyway, I clicked more hits and found out that there are quite a few African-American men doing this stuff. The one that really surprised me, though, was the guy from Virginia that reenacts for the Confederacy. When I saw _that_ , I decided I had to come along – I wanted to talk to that man."

Bob spoke up. "Reg is our historian. If you want to know anything about the Civil War, just ask him. Once he got started researching we couldn't stop him."

I wondered what Darin thought about reenactments, so I looked at him and asked, "What do you think?"

"It's like Reg said, it's easy to get caught up in it all once you realize how much black Americans took an active part in the war." Darin reflected for a moment and added, "Of course it's not for everyone, and many people, both black and white, ask us why we do it."

"What do you tell 'em?" I asked.

"If they really want to know, we tell them the same thing Reg just told you."

Bob stirred the fire and a flurry of firefly-like sparks and white-ash drifted into the dark sky.

"I've heard about the 54th Massachusetts," I remarked. "But I don't know much else about black Americans' part in the War."

Reg spoke up. "More than a hundred and eighty thousand black troops fought on the Union side, and nearly thirty thousand died on the battlefield. Obviously, things were different on the Confederate side.

"Many Southerners didn't want blacks fighting for the South. One general wrote Jeff Davis to say that if slaves were made into good soldiers then the whole idea of slavery must be wrong. I laughed when I read that letter – sure supports the argument that the war was about slavery. Maybe it was about other things too, but there's no doubt it was about slavery." Reg turned to Darin. "What was that General's name?"

"Cobb, I think," answered Darin.

"That's right, Howell Cobb. He was from Georgia. Anyway, it's hard to get a reliable count of the number of blacks who actually fought for the Confederacy. Some estimate that it was tens of thousands.

"As to why they fought, who really knows? Some historians deny that blacks actually fought for the South. They argue that many were forced to support the war effort in a variety of ways – jobs like cooking, maintaining clothes and equipment, you know, behind-the-lines kind of work. Others argue that they fought to preserve their way of life, but that doesn't make much sense to me, especially if they were slaves."

As Reg talked it became clear that different people had different interpretations of the Civil War. For a moment I wondered if only the pure historian's priority was to document history as accurately as possible. It was a mild revelation to me to hear that others might try to use historical facts and figures to their advantage – at the expense of discovering the truth. I should not have been surprised, but I was.

"Maybe," Reg said when I once again began to follow his words, "a few free blacks fought for the South, hoping to protect their freedom. Maybe others fought to defend women and children. It's easy to believe that some hot-headed Yankee officer would give orders for everyone on the Confederate side to be killed – when something like that happens, almost anyone would pick up a gun and defend themselves and the defenseless ones around them."

Everyone sat quietly listening to Reg. "Sometimes the black men who fought for the North didn't have it _much_ better. I read that half the 28th USCT died in Petersburg, while the Union generals sat in a bomb shelter getting drunk. Realizing that the odds of that battle weren't good, the generals selected the black regiments to lead the charge. At least _their_ white commanding officers fought and died beside them.

"Like Bob said, when I got started studying, I couldn't stop. I can quote you all kinds of facts and figures, give you details about different battles, but the one thing that's hard to understand sometimes is people's motives. When you try to understand what made people willing to sacrifice so many lives you just end up with a convoluted, mixed-up mess of a story. Look at Lee, a man who apparently didn't believe in slavery, serving out of loyalty as the commanding general of the South. I suppose that when he sorted things out, his feelings about slavery weren't as strong as the loyal feelings he had for the South. He weighed things out," Reg motioned toward Dex, "just like Daddy Roe weighed them out, but Lee and too many others like him cared more about something other than how wrong it is to put a lash to a man's back to get him to work for a little food and shelter. Interesting, how a man can make a single decision and become a hero to some people and something like a demon to others.

"I don't always get it," said Reg, "but those guys over there, the ones in the inner sanctum" – he pointed to the area surrounded by tents – "I'm sure they can explain it for you – they've got all the answers."

One of the men who hadn't spoke since I arrived picked up a cup and dribbled spit into it, while a few of us watched him. When he finished, he sat down his cup and two other men picked up their own cups and did the same thing. Thankfully that no one else followed.

"So Reg," said Flapp, "who's going down tomorrow?"

"It's your turn, Flapp," Reg told him.

"Listen, fellas," interrupted Bob. "Too many of you are not going down when you should. Anytime an army shoots a few hundred rounds from fifty yards and only two guys die, it's not right, is it?" Most of the men shook their heads.

Dexter spoke out. "I seen every bullet that was fired at me today, Bob, and I ducked every time one got near."

"Real funny," Bob replied. "Now listen, guys, we're going to play some high card draw, and the five guys drawing the highest cards get to live tomorrow, the others must die."

"Fair enough," said Dexter. "How about you, Ian, you want some of this action?"

I should have deferred. Instead I said "Why not?" knowing that I would not be there the next day.

Dexter said, "You know that means you'll have to fight with us tomorrow."

"I understand."

Bob informed everyone, "Okay then, with Ian in, the _six_ high cards get to live."

One of the men pulled a deck of cards from a haversack, shuffled the cards and passed them to Dexter. Dexter pulled out a card and said, "I'm a dead man." He showed us the three of diamonds. When it was my turn I pulled out the jack of hearts, and as it turned out I was one of the lucky six – I hoped there wouldn't be an argument about who would take my place.

Reg's comment about the "inner sanctum" made me realize that I needed to spend some time inside the circle of tents. Intending to make my way into the core of the camp I stood up and announced, "Well, gentlemen, I think I'm going to move on. Sounds like there's a lot to see out here."

"You goin in there?" Dexter asked as he motioned toward the tents.

"I was hoping to."

"I'd tell you to say you're from the Virginia 1202nd," added Dexter, "but they'd probably throw you out."

"Tell them you want to know more about _the Cause_ ," suggested Reg.

"The Cause?"

"Yeah," Dexter interjected, "'cordin to them the war was about the North imposin a way of life on the South. The Cause is all about fightin for a way of life. Reg told ya, it wasn't about slavery."

"I'll be sure to ask."

"Dexter, don't scare the man to death," said Flapp.

"He oughta be scared if'n he's goin in there."

I tipped my hat and said, "See you gentlemen later."

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," I replied and stepped away from the circle. Instead of walking between the tents, I began walking toward the Union encampment.

"Look, he's chickened out," someone said.

"Better get another uniform if you're going up there," someone else called out.

"Don't step on any spooners" was the last comment I heard as I laughed along with a group of men who couldn't hear me.

Meandering my way across the battlefield to the Union side, I looked for hardcores along the way. I walked along the dilapidated stone wall, the edge of the battlefield and the outcropping of rocks that the Confederate reenactors had used for cover during the mock battle earlier in the day. I was disappointed not to find anyone and presumed that they were all hanging out in the camps waiting until bedtime to endure the cold and loneliness that I had been led to believe was the trademark of a hardcore's life. Somewhere along the way, I began to think that I had led myself on the proverbial "snipe hunt".
Chapter XVI

Reflection

The year Anna and I graduated from college was the last time we spent more than a couple of weeks together. Anna was home for a month, but was scheduled to leave with a group of Amherst graduates for a year of missionary work in South America to study the aboriginal culture. While Anna was in college she traveled extensively. She spent the holidays, spring breaks, a few summer months and semesters working for different charitable organizations. While I was in college, the only place I traveled was to Fort Lauderdale during spring break. I always spent the holidays at my parents' and hung out with friends from high school. During the summer I worked on a yacht that took hotel guests on dinner cruises. The elderly jet-set crowd I catered to didn't need my charity.

Late one warm June afternoon, before the oppressive humidity of summer arrived on the Chesapeake Bay, Anna and I were together at her home. Her parents owned a seventy-acre estate, befitting a double-dipping retired colonel. The estate was named Elmford, after what was reputed to be the largest American Elm tree in Virginia. It took three adults, with hands joined, to circle the trunk. The domed canopy of leaves was more than fifty feet in diameter. In the late spring, when the leaves matured, the branches bent low and touched the ground. There were several cables running through the branches holding the tree together. It was like a dinosaur struggling not to collapse under its own weight.

Elmford was a peninsula that was bound along the northern, eastern and southern sides by more than a mile of shoreline of a tidal creek that drained into the Bay. The Foxhartes owned an ancient forty-two-foot Chris Craft appropriately named _Anna_. The Colonel was fond of the varnished wood look that went out of style when fiberglass became the primary building material of more modern speedboats and yachts. _Anna_ was kept in a boathouse that looked conspicuously like the Foxhartes' home. My mother often said, "The Foxhartes have more money tied up in that boat house than we have in our home." She was probably right. Close to the boathouse were a heated swimming pool and a tennis court.

The afternoon began with Anna and me playing tennis. We were fairly matched for skill but not for temperament. If I didn't ace Anna with a good serve, she would volley me into fatigue with what I assumed were high-priced ground-strokes. Anna was an efficient tennis player; for every one step she took, I took three. She seemed to stand at the back of center-court patiently waiting for me to make a mistake, while I hustled around struggling to return her well positioned shots. She typically won, or perhaps more accurately, I typically lost. Our match that day was typical.

We swam for a while after tennis; but as the sun set, the cool night air settled around us. As we dried off, we shivered with goose bumps and the hair stood upright on our skin. We glanced self-consciously toward her house to see if anyone was watching while we tiptoed into the boathouse and stepped giggling onto the boat. Sometime earlier, Anna had left a bottle of wine chilling in one of those '60s vintage leather ice buckets. She stepped forward into the only stateroom on the boat to change. I changed in the head. We met in the galley and sat at the table where I watched as she opened the wine and poured two glasses. It was getting dark outside and the dim lights on board reflected warmly off the wood and earth tones inside the cabin and seductively off Anna's golden tan. Her wet hair lay close to her head. She had combed it straight back and parted it down the center. Neat rows were left behind on either side by the teeth of her comb – her curls temporarily washed and brushed away.

"A toast," said Anna as she held her glass before me.

I held out my glass and replied, "A toast."

"To everlasting friendship."

"To everlasting friendship," I repeated.

I smiled, and we delicately touched our glasses and poured the sweet wine into our mouths.

Anna lifted her glass to offer another toast. "To lazy summer afternoons spent making memories."

"To lazy summer memories, I think." We each sipped our wine again.

"Today reminds me of the day we went to Digby Island," said Anna.

"Not the day you rescued me."

"Yes," Anna replied with a smile of superiority.

I remembered that day well. Anna and I were both about fifteen. Not old enough to drive, one way we could escape boredom and the seeming oppression of our parents was to take her father's Boston Whaler and explore the many creeks and shorelines along the eastern border of our county. Digby Island was a small and uninhabited island with an inconsistent shoreline. The Bay side, which was under the constant influence of wave action, was sandy; but the other side, separated from the mainland by wide shallows, was muddy. The day that Anna and I walked around Digby Island, I ventured into the mud on the mainland side and was sucked down almost to my waist. Anna dragged the weather-worn remains of a small dead tree to within about fifteen feet of where I was stuck, lifted the tree straight up, and let it drop in front of me. I held on to one end of the tree and twisted and turned myself, while she pulled on the other end. After a few desperate minutes Anna and I were able to pull me to firmer ground.

"Yes, the day _I_ rescued _you_."

"I don't see any similarities."

Anna smiled and said, "No, I won't say it."

"Say what?" I asked.

"It's too stupid."

"What?" I asked again.

"Get your head out of the mud and maybe you could see."

"Anna the jokester. You're right, it's stupid."

"Shut up, you," she said as she threw a balled up cocktail napkin at my face.

After Anna rescued me from the mud that day, I chased her around to the other side of the island, pretending I was a mutant creature. On the bay side of Digby Island she swam as I washed the caked mud from my body in the cool water. Swimming in the bay at that time of the year was sometimes hazardous, as the water was often thick with jellyfish. We were fortunate that day because few days earlier a tropical depression had diluted the bay with fresh water. "Nettles," as we called them, can't survive in brackish water, so they had moved saltier water farther out, into the bay. We had great fun splashing around in the surf.

Acknowledging the accuracy of Anna's memory, I said, "That was a good day, and this is a good day."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," I said as I emptied the wine from my glass.

"In a hurry?"

"Sorry," I responded. "Sometimes I forget what I'm drinking." I poured myself another glass.

"So tell me more about this girl you dated last summer."

"Jealous?" I raised my eyebrows.

"I might be."

"You shouldn't be. She was nice, but not really my type."

"Why not?"

"Oh, I don't know. I seem to be clueless when it comes to women. They always seem to get too serious."

"Do we seem to be too serious?"

"No, but I credit you for that, not myself."

"Why me?"

"You seem to know how to keep it – how do I say this? – friendly is not the right word. Oh, I don't know." I paused and then added, "But you've never asked more of me than I can give. So it must be you, Anna."

"What are you ready to give now?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You know what I mean."

I believed that Anna was asking me if I was ready for a more serious relationship. Although I felt that I was, I was not ready to talk about it. I responded with the first excuse that came to mind. "Shoot," I said, "I don't even have a job."

"That's not so important. You're intelligent, you've got a college degree, you'll work your way into a satisfying job." Anna raised her eyebrows as though she had just stumbled upon some pleasant discovery. "Hey, I've got an idea," she said.

"What?"

"Why don't you come with me?"

"Come with you?"

"To South America."

" _South America_? You're nuts."

"No I'm not."

"Oh, I don't know about going away like that. That's a – a big change of plans."

"What plans?" She asked knowing that I really had none.

"You'll be gone for a year."

"So?"

"I don't know, I mean, I guess I could." I thought quietly for a moment and took another sip of wine. "It could be a lot of fun."

"I think it would be great."

"Are you sure? You might get tired of seeing me every day. Besides, I'd be a liability"

Anna reached across the table and placed her hand on mine and said, "You won't be a liability; and no, I won't get tired of seeing you. I'd love for you to come. It's about time we stretch you beyond those provincial tendencies of yours."

"Provincial? Are you saying that I'm narrow-minded?"

"Not exactly. You have an open mind, just limited experience. That's all."

"You're so kind," I said. I flashed a smile.

"Bear with me, Ian."

"I'm listening."

"You know how you used to criticize your buddies in high school about thinking and acting as though the county line was the end of the world?"

"Yeah."

"Well, where does your world end?"

"I don't know. I've traveled some."

"Traveling by itself doesn't necessarily bring about changes in one's perspective."

"What are you trying to say?" I asked.

Anna was sitting sideways with her legs pulled up and feet resting on the galley bench. She was staring across the room. "How about Sam?" she said. "You spent a lot of time together in high school – right?"

"Yeah."

"Did you ever go into Sam's house?" she asked.

"No. I don't think he wanted me to; and, how do you know that anyway?"

"I just do," she answered. "Why do you think he never asked you in?"

"Well, it wasn't a very nice house, but that didn't bother me."

"Maybe not, but do you think it bothered him?"

"Well, yes."

"Okay." Anna paused. "How about his dad?"

"His dad?"

"Yes, his dad."

"You mean that – that he was an alcoholic?"

"Yes."

"What's your point, Anna?"

"My point is that people can live in different _worlds_ even when they live in the same community. Many people would have said that you and Sam were friends. You lived in the same community and spent a lot of time together, but you were from different worlds. To others casually observing you from day to day, you looked like friends – the differences in your worlds weren't so obvious."

"I didn't exclude Sam from my world. He excluded me from his."

"Did you ever ask yourself why?"

"He was embarrassed, maybe jealous; I don't know."

"Was Sam ever happy?"

"Sure, I saw Sam laughing and having fun plenty of times."

"Was it happiness, or pleasure?"

"Both. He experienced pleasure, but there were times, many times, when he was happy."

"Could you have been happy if you lived in the same environment Sam lived in – in a run-down house and with an alcoholic father?"

"I don't know. What's your point, Anna?"

"I'm not making myself very clear am I?"

"No."

"Okay, okay," she said. She sat for a moment before she continued. "Let's try something different. What do you think of when I say 'the human condition'?"

"A boring philosophy teacher," I told her.

"Seriously."

"Suffering?"

"Is it all suffering?"

"No, but I'm suffering right now."

"Cute," replied Anna. "So if it's not all suffering then what else characterizes the human condition?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think all people experience pleasure and happiness?"

"Many do, but not all."

"Who doesn't?"

"Some of those folks in South America. They suffer from poverty and who knows what else. There can't be much happiness in their lives."

Anna's eyes widened and she smiled. "That's where you're mistaken. They know happiness. What one discovers among people that are so clearly different, different in the way they look, speak, in their customs and values, the laws that they live by and living conditions is that these people really aren't that different from us. They experience sorrow when someone is hurt or dies, and _they_ experience pleasure and happiness. In third world countries pleasure and happiness can be hard to come by, but it's not as rare as one might think. Providing people have food, shelter and other people around who care about them they experience pleasure and happiness. Even when disease or tyrannical leaders threaten their lives, they experience pleasure and happiness. Pleasure and happiness are relative – for one who is poor it doesn't take much to bring a smile and smiles often come without it costing anyone anything." Anna picked up her glass and took a sip of wine. I sat quietly considering what she had just said. I thought I was beginning to understand her point. She set down her glass and said, "Ian, you said you couldn't have been happy if you lived in Sam's world, but how do you really know?"

"Maybe you're right," I said. "It's not so easy to believe that people who live in a hot and humid, impoverished environment can really be as happy, but you would know better than I."

"I'd like _you_ to know, too. I'd like you to come see for yourself. Like I said, it's time to 'stretch you' a bit. Time to learn from living in another world, one that's out of your comfort zone."

"I'll think about it."

"Great," replied Anna. "That's all I ask, but don't take too long. We'll have to formally add your name to the list in the next few days."

We sat silently for a moment and it soon became apparent that Anna was ready to change the subject. I looked into the wine glass as I twirled it in my fingers, watching the wine climb the sides of the glass in a thin film of liquid that would trickle back down when I held the glass still. I didn't know what to say, so I looked up at Anna and smiled, hoping she would help me with the conversation. She smiled but left me sitting self-consciously searching for the right words. My first thought was to say that I was lucky to know her. I knew these thoughts to be true, but I was afraid that my intent would be misconstrued. I was concerned that if I did not express my thoughts carefully she would think that I was insincere. Finally I told myself to just say it; after all, this was Anna.

"Anna, I'm a lucky guy."

"What makes you say that?"

"I'm lucky to have a friend like you."

Anna smiled. She stretched out her legs beneath the table and rested her warm feet against the insides of my thighs.

The next morning I was at home still trying to make sense of the conversation I'd had with Anna as well as trying to think of the best way to talk to my parents about spending a year in South America. I was still living with my parents while I was looking for a job. I knew they would not object to me going to South America, but they would no doubt have many questions – especially about money. In four years of college, I had accumulated over twenty-five thousand dollars in debt and the first payment was due in a few months. I was reading the loan contract to see if I might be eligible for a deferment.

The phone rang, but I did not answer it – my mother was downstairs and I knew she would answer. A few moments later she came to my room with her hand over the receiver. I hoped it was Anna; I was ready to tell her that I wanted to go to South America.

The caller was the personnel manager from the inn where I had worked during the summers while I was in college. He was calling in response to a job application I had dropped off two days earlier. We talked for few minutes before he asked if I would come in for an interview. I interviewed the next day, he offered me the job, and I accepted. I talked with Anna soon after and again the morning she left for South America. She said she understood my decision, but I could tell that she was disappointed.
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 _s_ traight 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."

"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.

Chapter XVIII

Reflection

In some ways I was a slow starter. A fact that caused me much frustration and embarrassment as a teenager, but I eventually came to terms with the pattern of my adolescence. Thankfully Anna was there, patiently waiting for me to catch up. When I think about the times when she was not around, I don't feel as though I missed much. In fact, I find it easy to believe that I had some sort of guardian angel looking out for me. Those pimple-faced days were often confusing.

Not that I see it this way, but let's assume that to some adolescents a real date occurs when two people who would consider having sex with each other spend a significant amount of unsupervised time together – I recall that a date somehow seemed even more official if a car was involved. According to that definition, my first date was with a girl I hardly knew. In fact, the only time I ever spoke to her before we went out was to ask her out. We went to a movie with another "couple." I remember two things about that night. The first is that I sat silently in the back seat two feet away from my date while my buddy, who was driving and looking at me through the rearview mirror, kept suggesting with his eyes that I get closer to her. The only other thing I remember is how my date introduced me to French kissing when I walked her to the door to tell her good night. I enjoyed the kiss for a moment, but then something Max had once said began haunting me: "Ian, if you French kiss a girl for too long an immune response will cause your tongue to swell, and if it gets too bad you'll choke to death." That night when I got home I brushed my teeth three times, gargled twice and took a double dose of allergy medication. I also prayed that I'd wake up in the morning. The only good the allergy medication did was put me to sleep and give me a hang over in the morning. The unfortunate thing about that first date was that I think I liked the girl, but I was not brave enough to ask her out again.

Progress was slow, painfully slow at times. When you're sixteen and someone you think of as a friend says, "She told me you wouldn't do it," it hurts. Somehow I survived. I hope she did. I'm glad I listened to whatever force, or perhaps counter-force, of nature was telling me not to "do it".

Then there was Anna. When we were in middle school we went to dances together and had great fun. There was no pressure to be anything more than friends. We were in the eighth grade before I first dreamed of kissing her.

Soon after school started that year a friend invited me to a party. My mother drove me there. I didn't know that Anna was going to be there, so I was pleased when I arrived and saw her standing outside with our friends.

"Anna, you're here."

She spread her arms out and said with a big smile, "I'm here."

"So what are we going to do?"

"Play records and dance."

"Dance?" I said, making it clear that I was not interested.

"Dancing is fun."

"Not for me. Are we playing any games?" I asked anxiously.

"You mean like 'truth or dare'?"

"Yeah."

"I hope so," said Anna.

"I hope not." I was always terrified that someone might chose "dare" and the "dare" would be to kiss me. When we played the game, I always chose "truth."

Anna and I stepped up onto the porch and sat down together in a swing. "Ian," she said, "have you ever kissed anyone?"

"No," I said emphatically.

"It's nothing to be afraid of."

"Oh, I know," I said, as I regained my composure and tried to act nonchalant.

"It's really kind of nice."

"It is?" If I had not been so worried about where our conversation was leading I might have felt a rush of jealousy and I tried to figure out who Anna had kissed.

"Yes, it is," she said.

We both sat quietly. Each time the swing came forward I touched my foot to the porch and lightly pushed backwards. Although the sun had not set, the porch was darkened by the shade of the many tall trees in the yard. I assumed that all of the guests had arrived because everyone, except Anna and I had gone into the house.

Anna turned sideways on the swing and looked at me. "Would you like to try?" she asked.

I knew what Anna was asking me. I didn't know what to say. My heart was pounding, I felt dizzy and I wanted to run. The best I could do was delay the inevitable. "Try what?"

"Don't be afraid, Ian."

"I'm not afraid," I said defensively.

Anna placed her hand on my arm and leaned forward. She looked into my eyes and said, "Ian, you're very special to me. Don't you _ever_ forget that and don't let me forget it either. Promise?"

"I promise," I said and I closed my eyes.
Chapter XIX

9:35 pm

I tried to stay away from the Virginia 1202nd as I approached the Confederate camp. I didn't want to hear any fun-loving jeers as I made my way into the "inner sanctum." I was nervous enough. I didn't need any help from the men of the 1202nd.

Reenactors surrounded a large fire burning inside the circle of tents. Their shadows flickered eerily on the yellow canvas, which danced in a breeze that was swirling about the camp. I was relieved to see men standing, as well as sitting; I would be fairly inconspicuous when I walked up.

I heard someone play a chord on a banjo. Everyone sitting and standing around the fire was watching a man tune his stringed instrument. He played a couple more chords and twisted one of the pegs. I did not want to stand around and listen to a bunch of out-of-tune men sing "Dixie" and other Southern favorites, but I also realized that under these circumstances I might go unnoticed as an outsider so I decided to stay. The banjo player twisted the pegs again and I heard him exclaim, "Oh crap".

"What's wrong?" someone asked.

"Broke a string. I've got more in my tent." The banjo player stood up and said, "I'll be right back," before he hurried away.

I started to count the men, but gave up because too many of them were moving around from place to place within the camp. There were at least thirty. Most were dressed in gray uniforms, like the one I was wearing. A few, however, were dressed in tan pants and white shirts; they looked like planters. Others were wearing various combinations of gray, soldiers' uniforms and planters' clothing. Many had on caps or hats. Some of the men fit the hardcore profile with their raw, bony faces and ragged beards; others fit the more typical profile of the overweight middle-aged American male. Their faces were intense as they talked with each other while they waited for the banjo player to return.

I was slowly walking around the campfire when someone suddenly shouted, "When and where was the first shot fired during the War Between the States?"

That's easy, I thought, from the battery of Charleston soon after Lincoln took office – April something.

"January 9th, 1861 when four cadets from the Citadel fired at the Yankee steamer – the Star of the West."

"That's right," replied the man who had asked the question.

But that couldn't be right, I thought; that was before Lincoln took office.

Then another question, "Name three major reasons for the War of Southern Independence."

"A need to stop Northern expansionism, generations of unresolved conflict between Celtic immigrants in the South and English immigrants in the North, and total disregard among the Yankees in power for the rights and sovereignty of the Southern states."

"Good answer."

I considered the answer and realized that there was no direct mention of slavery and only an implied acknowledgement of the political struggle that surrounded slavery. And, I thought, when has the Civil War ever been referred to as the "War of Southern Independence"? These men were espousing a history with which I was not familiar. Reg had called them neo-Confederates; I wondered if the hyphenated words neo-historian applied as well.

While standing there, listening to the reenactors shout out strange interpretations of history, I noticed that two men had entered and left the large tent and that a third was now inside. There were two other men standing outside. One must have been a guard – each time someone entered or left he saluted and closed the flap that served as a door. The other man, who was engaged in conversation with the guard, looked familiar. He was wearing a soldier's uniform without a cap and looked like the man who gave Max and me a ride down from the mountain. Realizing that it could be Zeb, I wondered how Anna might react when I told her I had seen him – inside the inner sanctum. The formality of the scene and the presence of Zeb stirred my curiosity about who might be inside the tent.

The questions and the same strange answers continued. One reenactor shouted, "Did Lincoln save the Union?"

Another answered back, "No, the Union is now an artifact of a previously dominant Northern nation. Even today the South endures expansionist Northern ideals."

"Did slavery cause the war?"

"No, a hostile antislavery movement caused the war."

"Good answer," shouted a group of men.

"Good answer," I repeated in amazement. I had to wonder if according to these men the proslavery movement was anti-hostile. Every answer seemed correct enough to be defensible; in fact, I imagined that these dedicated neo-Confederates spent innumerable hours sorting through vast archives to support their positions. I was not surprised at these men's differing perspective; instead, I was uneasy with the question of why. Why did they go to such lengths to justify their beliefs? What would a black man or woman listening to this peculiar interpretation of facts think – especially if he or she was a descendent of slaves?

I was also frightened by what I was hearing. These men had the right to assemble and to interpret history any way they wanted. And as long as they were not seriously challenged, I was certain they would continue to do so. But what if someone challenged their interpretation of the facts? The concept of what was meant by _the Cause_ was sinking in.

So I stood there listening to a strange interaction between seemingly intelligent men hoping someone would unwittingly answer my questions. I stood there until the banjo player returned and put a new string on his instrument. He played a few chords and I decided to leave the "inner sanctum".

When I turned around I bumped into a reenactor who said, "Where you going hardcore?"

"To relieve myself," I said, hoping to make a quick exit.

"To the woods with you then, no porta-privy." I smiled at the man's remark and sighed in relief. But then he looked at me curiously, as though he did not recognize me, and asked, "What brings you here?"

I looked at him blankly and replied, "Excuse me?"

"I haven't seen you here before. Tell me, why are you here?"

I said the first thing that came to my mind. "I'm with the Virginia 1202nd."

The reenactor laughed and squared off in front of me. I assumed his laughter was intended as a comment about his view of the Virginia 1202nd. "Why are _you_ here?" I asked boldly.

"You could say that I'm here to help clear up history," he said.

"To clear up history?"

"Yeah, Civil War history. Oh, I used to be like you and your friends over there in the Virginia 1202nd; but I wised up after while. You guys don't take reenacting seriously enough. The guys in here, they understand."

"Understand?"

"Yeah. They know that once the liberals started writing history books and textbooks everyone started believing that the Civil War was all about freeing slaves. People get it in their heads that that's what it was about and they start feeling sorry for blacks. Next thing you know all the other liberals want to give blacks everything. Thanks to them – the liberals, that is – we get things like welfare and affirmative action quotas. They think blacks and other minorities can't make it in the world without help from the government. You know what they say – the system was set up by white men, therefore it must favor white men. Now I ask you, what the hell-kinda logic is that? Next thing you know, the liberals are going to vote in favor of reparations. That'd be a hoot – paying people back wages cause their ancestors were slaves. You know, there are attorneys out there specializing in reparations. Some have filed civil suits against companies that were in existence before the Civil War. Claim they have evidence that those companies profited from slave trade. Lotta good it's gonna do those slaves – they might deserve reparations, but their great, great, great grandchildren don't. Now I ain't got nothing against blacks, most of them, that is. They got as much right as I do to a job and a decent home. But I can't see them or any other minorities being given special privileges. And those that holler about discrimination. Give them a chance and they'll turn the tables."

"Turn the tables?"

The man ignored my comment and continued, "When you get down to it, what concerns me most is how the Civil War has been interpreted. It had nothing to do with slavery, it was about sovereignty – how's that for irony. The more people understand that it was about sovereignty, the more they can see how all the change that's come to the South didn't happen because it was the way Southerners wanted it. No, it was about Yankees thinking their way of living was a better way – like some kind of industrialized, authoritarian state. Answer me this, would you rather have a factory or a farm in your backyard?"

"Huh?"

"Would you rather have a farm or a factory in your backyard?"

"Ah, a farm; I guess. Providing they limit the use of fertilizers and pesticides." I said, half-joking, half-serious; but the man kept on talking.

"Well, if the Yankees had left things alone, there would be more farms and less factories. Life would move at a slower pace, there'd be less pollution, less stress-related disease and less greed. I ain't saying the Yankees today are to blame, but I am saying that the people of the South deserve more respect. For the real people of the South, the Civil War was about sovereignty – we were fighting for respect and the freedom to decide for ourselves how we should live."

I nodded and forced an expression of understanding. "So, do you think the war would have happened even if slavery had not existed?"

"As long as the difference between the way people in the South and people in the North lived were so profound – yes, it would have eventually happened. Might even happen again. Don't misunderstand me, but there are a lot of issues that people of the South feel differently about than people elsewhere. Like prayer in school, saying "under God" when we say the 'Pledge of Allegiance'. My way of thinking is that if the people of one state want to say "under God" why should the people of another state care. Look," he said as if he had grown weary of trying to explain himself, "I'm just here trying to set the record straight – that's all."

"You and a lot of other people," I said. I didn't mention that I had heard the same comment on the opposite side of the battlefield. "Hey," I said, wanting to ask another question. "Have you ever thought what it would be like if the South did rise again? Would the states in the South hang Confederate flags above the Stars and Stripes? Would people be free to move about within the United States? Would the United States still exist? I mean, I just can't imagine what kind of changes would take place."

"I'll tell you what would happen. There'd be a glorious revival of state's rights. States would demand that the federal government collect fewer taxes or return more tax revenues to them and not spend so much money on ill-fated liberal causes. Just look at the proportion of minorities who hold federal government positions; its way out of wack with the distribution of minorities in our population. The federal government is the business of minorities, paid for by the tax dollars of the hard working middle class. The only good thing about it is that it's not welfare." The talkative man paused, as if he was collecting his thoughts. "The states," he continued, "would have more freedom to spend those monies at their discretion. There would be a reduction in federal mandates. And, while I don't think you'd see Old Glory flying beneath the Southern Cross, you'd see the Confederate flags flying at the state capitols and governor's mansions – a symbol of state sovereignty. That's what the people of the South want."

"So the pendulum would start to swing back in the other direction?" I asked.

"In a way, yes. You could say that."

"And how far would it swing?"

"Oh, the states would be reasonable about it."

"I see."

I wanted to ask more questions, but was distracted by the thought that I was moving along some kind of continuum. Before today, I was hardly aware that reenacting existed. In only a few hours, however, I had visited with Thomas, a spectator, whose association with reenacting was secondary to his son's involvement and sutlers who capitalized on the reenactor's desire for information, authenticity and symbols important to their identities. From there, I visited a variety of reenactors; some appeared to be primarily interested in honoring their heritage while others, like the man standing in front of me, seemed driven to explain the way we live today is an undesirable byproduct of the outcome of the Civil War. As these thoughts spun around in my mind I decided to leave the inner sanctum. I said to the man, "Look, thanks for your insights. I'd like to talk more, but nature calls."

"Hardcore," he commanded. "There's one more thing. Until people understand what the Civil War was really about we don't have a chance of getting things back to the way they should be. Think about that."

"I will," I said loud enough for the man to hear.

There was one more place I planned to go. I wanted to slip in behind the large tent and eavesdrop on the conversation inside, but between the sound of the banjo and all the reenactors singing I decided to wait until the noise subsided.
Chapter XX

9:50 pm

I stood outside the circle of tents and waited for the music to stop, but the banjo player possessed a seemingly endless repertoire of songs like, "When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again", "Goober Peas" and the "Battle Hymn of the Republic." I finally gave up and visited again with the Virginia 1202nd.

During my second visit the reenactors spent more time talking about their motorcycles and the hand-to-hand combat stunts they used on the battlefield. They even indulged each other with demonstrations of their favorite stunts, and it seemed that they learned most of their new ones from the antics of some "professional" wrestling association. They were a fun-loving bunch of guys, and I was delighted with their company, but it was late and I was growing tired.

When the group inside the tents began to sing "Dixie" I assumed the music would soon stop. I stood up and said goodbye to the men of the 1202nd and walked away as if I was leaving the camp for the night.

One of the men said, "See you tomorrow hardcore." His salutation was followed by an enthusiastic and drawn-out cheer; "H-a-r-d-c-o-r-e."

I turned and waved and then walked on. When I got beyond the tents and the fence, into the moonlight-cast shadows, I turned and walked stealthily toward the far end of the camp where the large tent was set up. The guard was still posted outside, but Zeb was gone. Several horses were tied up in an area behind the tent. I hid in the darkness and moved slowly, trying to stay out of sight of the guard and hoping not to stir the horses. As I approached the tent, the horses became restless and I stood still, patiently waiting for them to quiet down. I soon realized that I could have more easily positioned myself behind the large tent while the music was playing, but it was too late for that. After a few seconds the horses settled but they stirred again when I tried to approach. Frustrated, I walked backward a few yards, sat on a large stone, and began rethinking my strategy. I was determined to listen to the conversation inside that tent.

Minutes later, two reenactors walked up to the guard and began talking with them. One of the men kneeled down and pulled out a pouch of tobacco and cigarette papers. Again, I tried to approach the back of the tent. The horses stirred slightly, but the three men outside the tent seemed far too interested smoking and talking to each other to notice me or the restless horses, so I continued walking toward a small area between the makeshift corral and the camp. When I finally arrived at the back of the tent I sat on the ground, less than three feet away listening to the conversation among the reenactors inside. I was concerned that someone wandering past the back of the tent could have easily seen me. But that was not likely, since the whole of the camp was on the other side and the base of the eastern mountain slope rose up just beyond where the horses stood behind me. I sat there illuminated by the light within the tent, but I cast no discernable shadow and felt comfortable and ever more curious.

The figure of a man and other indistinct shadows pulsated rhythmically against the outstretched canvas. Beams of light passed through small holes in the tent; most were near the bottom, no doubt from excessive wear. But a few were higher, about five feet above the ground, almost tailor-made for peeking inside.

The first words I heard, "Sergeant Andersen," were drawn out in some muffled, southeastern dialect such that they sounded more like, "Saw-gent An-da-sen." The speaker continued in his drawling speech, "I would like you to immediately disseminate the message written here to our regimental members – that is, the ones sleeping in this camp tonight. Tell them that their answer is expected no later than one week from tomorrow. The usual means of communication will do. And be sure they understand that if they fail to answer, it will be assumed that they are not interested in renewing their membership."

"Yes sir."

"That will be all."

"Yes sir, Colonel."

"Thank you, Sergeant."

"Yes sir.

The sergeant exited the tent and the colonel spoke to someone else. "Junior," he said, "I'm troubled."

"What is it?"

"We have a rather high number of soldiers from this regiment wearing a different color uniform this weekend."

"You're right, Leland; it's 'poor form'. Without them, though, we wouldn't have enough Union soldiers for much of a reenactment."

"I suppose that's true," replied Leland, " _but_ , their disloyalty is not easily forgotten. Perhaps it's best if I don't even know who they are. Wouldn't want to be tempted to put a ball of lead in my pistol to settle some score."

"Most of them are pretty loyal, you know."

" _Pretty_ loyal is not good enough." The men were silent for a moment, and during their silence I became aware of the sound of the horses behind me chewing hay. I could also hear the indistinct, distance voices of men talking quietly in the night.

"On a different matter," Leland said softly. "I've been meaning to compliment you for your efforts to revise our by-laws – a masterful piece of work."

"Thanks."

"I particularly like this section." Movement of the shadow on the back of the tent suggested that Leland had picked up a piece of paper. "I like the way it sounds, and I understand its meaning, but I believe we should have one of our attorneys to look at it."

Leland began to read out loud, "'Membership in the Association for Southern Heritage is limited to descendents of officers and enlisted soldiers that officially served in the Army of the Confederate States of America during the War for Southern Independence, commonly known as The Civil War. Official service is defined in accordance with the following historical documents.'" He stopped reading and rambled as if thinking out loud. "The documents are listed here. We know that each one clearly specifies who is included and" – he emphasized – "who is not." Leland continued, "So as I understand it, by using this list of official documents as our criteria for membership will be more precisely what we want them to be. No longer will we have to consider any, any undesirable applicants."

Junior responded _,_ "That's right."

I wished I'd known what official documents were listed in the by-laws Leland was reading. What was clear, however, was that the by-laws of some "heritage"-type organization were being revised in a way that would impose strict limitations on membership. I presumed that the restrictions were intended to prevent those not sympathetic to the Southern Cause from joining the organization.

I was disheartened and thought that Anna's feelings about the community she lived in and reenactments might be justified. But I wasn't ready to give up. After all, it seemed apparent to me that a significant number of the reenactors I'd encountered were here for reasons that the Anna Foxhartes of the world would find tolerable.

Leland continued talking. "Now, tell me about the living history demonstrations."

"Last week we had ten fourth-grade classes from different schools visit the Early Center. Two members of our regiment were there giving demonstrations and talking to the kids."

"Talking about what?" asked Leland.

"They showed the kids how to clean muskets, passed around some food samples, and explained the significance of different flags. They also talked about Early and Breckinridge and other officers, as well as the VMI cadets."

"The kids' response?"

"Oh, they ate it up," replied Junior.

"Excellent," said Leland, "And what about the catechism?"

"I delivered a couple of hundred copies last week – some to Charleston and some to Charlotte. I hope to distribute the others next week."

"Don't make any special trips."

"Oh, no," Junior responded, "I drop them off while making the rounds for work."

I did not clearly understand what the two men were talking about. My only experience with catechisms was from the time I spent in church as a child. They included a list of questions and answers intended to educate children and adults about Christianity. Were these neo-Confederates attempting to educate people about the Civil War by using catechisms? This approach was consistent with the boisterous question-and-answer session I had listened to inside the circle of tents. The discussion between Leland and Junior made it sound as if the neo-Confederates might be using this method to educate children about the Civil War. I was disturbed by my deduction and hoped it was wrong.

"And the flag program?" asked Leland.

"After a slow start, business is picking up. I sent out a memorandum to the members of sixteen regiments. I explained that by flying the Battle Flag they would be making a public statement about their Southern values. I also gave the names of vendors who would give them a discount if they presented a membership number when making a purchase. Sales of flags and stickers and other items have increased almost ten percent since last year."

"It warms my heart every time I see one of our flags flying in someone's yard. If this keeps up Junior, every Yankee and every..."

The men's conversation was interrupted by an announcement from the guard standing outside the tent. "Colonel."

"Yes," replied Leland.

"There is a handsome young soldier outside that would like to see you."

"Is he loyal to the Cause, Sergeant?"

"I believe he is, Sir – very loyal, as a matter of fact...."

Leland interrupted, "Then by all means, let him in."

A moment later I heard, "Hi, Daddy."

Leland responded to his son's greeting with a warm "Hey buddy. Come sit here." A second shadow danced on the back of the tent in the flickering light of a lantern.

"What'cha doing, Daddy?"

"Major Squires and I are discussing a little business," replied Leland.

Major Squires? – I thought to myself. Was the other man in the tent Owen Squires' son – Junior? I wanted to see, so I quietly stood up and stepped toward the back of the tent. I positioned my head a couple of inches from a hole and moved from side to side. The hole was large enough for me to see one person at a time. At first I saw the back of a man's head; he was holding a red sash in one hand and repeatedly pulling it through the other. His sword was leaning against the table and his young son was sitting next to him.

In the corner of the tent, toward the front, I saw a man that I presumed was Junior Squires. The frayed edges of cloth around the hole made it impossible to bring the man's face into focus. While it was hard to see him, his presence in the tent fit with the uneasy comments made by Owen earlier in the day.

I edged closer, hoping to get a better look. I stood, precariously balanced, and felt that if I leaned forward any more I would surely fall. I was shifting my eyes from one person to other, when the flames from the lantern on the table between Leland and Junior suddenly wafted. Like a forced exhalation, air rushed through the peephole and the canvas lightly touched my nose. For a moment I feared that the impression of my face appearing on the inside of the tent might cause me to be discovered, but the conversation continued. I bent my knees slightly and withdrew my head an inch or so.

Pulsating with light and gently expanding and contracting like a giant lung, the tent was alive. And, I sensed the irony of looking inside this particular tent – the one that stood authoritatively among the circle of tents. It was like looking into the very soul of a frightening part of humanity that I could not comprehend.

"Will I get to be the drummer boy tomorrow, Daddy?"

Leland answered his son, compassionately, "You know you're too young to be a drummer boy."

"Awe Daddy. I promise I'll do a good job."

"Now son, I told you that when you turn ten you can be a drummer boy."

"But that's not till next year," complained the boy.

"You can wait one more year."

"Awe Daddy," he whined.

"Listen, why don't we talk about something else? Tell Major Squires about that sporty new bicycle you got for you birthday?"

"But I want to talk about being the drummer boy."

"I know you do, son," Leland sighed.

Junior spoke up. "I'd like to hear about that bicycle."

The boy replied, "It's a mountain bike. It's got twenty-one gears."

"Do you ride it in the mountains?"

"Mr. Squires, you know there ain't no mountains where we live. And, Daddy, he won't let me ride it in but one direction."

"One direction?" said Junior, making it clear that he didn't understand.

"He won't let me go in the other direction on a count of the blacks that live down the street."

"He won't?" Junior replied, facetiously prompting the boy to elaborate on his remarks.

"No, cause Daddy says, 'We ain't prejudiced, we just don't like ni...'" The boy's words suddenly became muffled.

"Not so loud, son," said his father. He must have placed his hand over the boy's mouth.

Surprised by what the boy had just said, I barely avoided falling into the tent by bending my knees and taking a big step back. As I put my foot down a stick cracked and the horses stirred. I held my breath, afraid that I might be discovered; but I heard hushed laughter from inside and knew that I was safe.

"Chip off the old block," said Junior.

Leland said to his son, "Now why don't you run along outside, and I'll come after you in a minute."

"No drummer boy, Daddy?"

"No, son. If I break the rules for you then I've got to break them for everyone. Now run along."

"See ya, sport," said Junior as the boy ran outside.

I stood behind the tent and reflected on what the boy had just said. The words sounded familiar, and I soon realized that what he had said, at least to the extent that he was allowed to speak, was identical to the comment made by Owen's neighbor when he was talking about the black family that was looking at property in his neighborhood.

If Leland's son was about to say what I thought, then I _had_ heard enough. Anna was justified in her dislike for reenactments, and Max was right about the craftiness of those in charge – at least at this reenactment. If Anna was with me she probably would have marched into the tent and demanded that Leland and Junior leave immediately; but, I didn't know what to do. Under the circumstances I didn't think I could do anything that would make a difference. I was taken by surprise and needed time to think. I slowly walked away.
Chapter XXI

10:30 pm

On my way back to Owen's RV, the words spoken by Leland's son sounded in my ears again and again. "We ain't prejudiced... We ain't prejudice..." As I climbed the steps I wondered if Leland was Owen's former neighbor, the one who had expressed his dislike for blacks. I also realized that the man talking to Leland, Major Squires, had to be Owen's son – Junior. It occurred to me that Owen probably knew more about reenactments than he let on. But what disturbed me most was what I had not heard – the word that Leland prevented his son from speaking.

I knocked on the door and heard Max say, "Come in." I opened the door and he said, "Johnny Reb, how was your little adventure?"

I sat down in the chair. Max was sitting on the couch watching television.

"What's wrong?" asked Max.

"Nothing, just tired."

"I hope not too tired. Anna was here a little while ago. She said she'd come back."

"That's nice," I said blankly. "Where's Owen?"

"Gone to bed. You sure there's nothing wrong?"

I didn't want to answer Max's question so I asked, "How much more did he drink?"

"None."

I looked across the room at a picture on the wall that I had only glanced at before. It was a portrait of Owen, his late wife and two grown children, a young woman and a young man. I walked over and looked carefully at his son and saw that he resembled Junior, the same man I'd seen inside the large tent talking to Leland.

Too agitated to be still, I walked over to the stack of papers sitting in the chair next to the dinette. I began to rifle through them wondering what the other articles revealed about Civil War reenactments. Among the titles were, "Is Gettysburg Selling Our Heritage", "Virginia Senator Tries to Smooth Ruffled Confederate Feathers" and "Georgia Senator Calls Governor Racist". As I dug through the papers, I was reminded that for some people the Civil War was far more than a simple pass-time – indeed, for many it _was_ an obsession. I set down the stack of papers and began picking them up, one by one, counting the articles. Somewhere in the thirties I lifted a full-page "proclamation" paid for by the Association for Southern Heritage. It was entitled "Confederate History and Heritage Month: A Proclamation." The page was framed with rows of Confederate battle flags across the top and bottom and partial columns of flags along the sides. A larger, light gray battle flag was printed just above the center of the page; the body of the "proclamation" was superimposed over the larger flag. It began with a "Whereas" statement indicating that April was the month in which the Civil War began and ended. Similar statements followed. One essentially blamed Lincoln for the war; others were a call to honor the Civil War generation that lived in the same county and towns where the paper was printed. The final "Resolved" statement was difficult to comprehend. It was an appeal to "honor and respect the devotion of... soldiers and civilians, both white and black, free and slave, to the cause of Southern Independence...". Had I read it twenty-four hours before; that is, if I'd bothered to read it at all, I would not have had a second thought about the final statement. Instead, I wondered what was meant by the words "soldiers and civilians, both white and black, free and slave." I quickly considered possible variations of soldiers and civilians based on the modifiers used in the proclamation – for instance, free white soldier or even free black civilian fit with my understanding of the Civil War South. Other combinations seemed ludicrous. For example, white slave-soldier. Whether plausible or ludicrous, I did not question those derivations; however, I struggled with free black soldier, slave-soldier and slave-civilian. Recalling that Reg had said that some historians deny that blacks fought for the South, it suddenly seemed more likely that the section of the bylaws that Leland had read out loud was aimed at limiting black membership in the Association for Southern Heritage. I concluded that, if I was right, the words black and slave were not inserted with sincerity and goodwill; on the contrary, it appeared to be a lame attempt to be politically correct. I wish Reg or any of his friends from the group of Union soldiers had been there to tell me what they thought of the proclamation. Confused by what I had just read, I dropped the paper on the table and returned to the stack.

I picked up a few more articles and then an entire section of a newspaper. Beneath the newspaper was a set of tri-folded papers. I unfolded them and saw a note clipped to a document entitled "Catechism for Southern Children: Twenty Questions for Children Ages 9 - 11." The note was addressed to Junior. It read, "Please see that these are distributed to our 'Daughters' in Charleston, Columbia and Savannah. Contact the respective offices to find out how many copies are needed. Leland". I pulled off the note and started reading.

Question #1. What was the War Between the States?

Answer #1. A war fought to defend Southern sovereignty

Question #2. What is sovereignty?

Answer #2. The right of a person or people to make their own laws.

Question #3. When did the War Between the States take place?

Answer #3. From 1861 to 1865.

The first few questions seemed innocent enough, even if the answer to question number one reflected a perspective similar to that articulated by the reenactors inside the circle of tents. If the concern is about sovereignty, I thought, then why didn't these people give more attention to the American Revolution – wasn't that war also about the issue of sovereignty; and, wasn't if fought on American soil? I thumbed through the pages to see if the remaining questions were similar. After the first ten questions the emphasis seemed to change.

Question #12. Where and when was the first slave ship built?

Answer #12. In the northern state of Massachusetts in 1636.

Question #15. How did the slaves feel about their masters?

Answer #15. They were faithful and devoted and were always ready and willing to serve them.

As I read the final questions the insidious nature of the document seemed evident. I stood there thinking about the catechism and the exchange between Leland and Junior, and Leland's son. I envisioned a thriving network of men and women working hard to seamlessly ease their offspring and perhaps even other children into a world of one sided beliefs and ideals.

Suddenly feeling angry, I wanted to escape the realization that I now confronted. I folded the paper and tucked it into my waistband. "Excuse me," I said to Max and walked down the short hallway to the bathroom.

Owen was snoring loudly behind the closed door to his bedroom. I stepped into the bathroom and switched on the light, closed the door and turned the knob marked "cold" on the faucet over the sink. I splashed the water on my face, looked in the mirror and repeated the question, "How can people do that to children?" I sat on the toilet seat and dropped my head into my hands, covered my nose and mouth with my hands and cursed. "Those bastards," I said.

A few minutes later I was still angry but had regained my composure. I looked in the mirror again and saw that the flesh around the lids was red. If I walked back into the living area Max would realize that something _was_ bothering me, so I looked aimlessly around the bathroom.

Inside a cabinet I found a pair of scissors, a razor and a can of shaving cream. When I looked at my beard I was reminded of the reenactors calling me "hardcore." While their comments were made in jest, the feeling of camaraderie was gone. I no longer wanted to be a "hardcore". I decided to shave.

I began to cut my beard, dropping each clump of hair into the trash can. After almost three months without shaving my beard extended more than a couple of inches beneath my chin. I cut slowly, getting the scissors close to my skin, more flesh from my face showing with each swipe. Although the activity was distracting, I could not shake the visions of Junior delivering hundreds of catechisms to some obscure meeting place in Charleston or Columbia. I imagined him knocking on a door and patiently waiting for some elderly "daughter of the Confederacy" to answer. "Why Mr. Squires, how nice to see you," she begins. "Won't you please come in?" she says as she steps aside and curtsies slightly as he walks inside. They chat for a minute, perhaps they have tea, and he explains why he is there. When he leaves, she says, "My friends and I will see that your information is properly distributed. And please, Mr. Squires, do come again soon. Why it's always such a pleasure to see you." I snickered a bit at my willingness to accept the stereotype.

I finished cutting with the scissors and spread shaving cream around my face. I touched the blade to the top of my jaw and pulled down, all the way to my chin. The razor pulled my beard and I winced. I continued on the opposite side. Then I shaved around my cheeks and under my nose. Having finished most of my face, I rotated the razor in my hand and began shaving my neck. The need to concentrate on shaving momentarily prevented me from thinking about anything else.

When I was done, my face was speckled with blood. I washed it with cold water, tore little pieces of toilet paper and placed one on each spot of blood. After I cleaned the sink I picked up the trash can, opened the door and walked toward the living area. Max was watching me.

"Cut yourself?" he asked.

"Hope Owen doesn't mind that I took liberties with his razor and shaving cream."

"He won't."

"I cleaned up after myself as best I could," I said as walked past Max and into the kitchen.

"So what happened out there? Something's obviously got you worked up."

"I don't want to talk about it."

I was standing in the dark, dumping the bathroom trash into the garbage can when the door to the RV opened. It was Junior. He said to Max, "You're still here. Where's my father?"

Max stood up. "Your father's in bed. He invited us," Max gestured toward me, "to stay tonight."

"I need another blanket; it's getting cold out there." Junior looked at me. I was still wearing the Confederate uniform. I expected him to say something; instead he turned toward Max and simply said, "Excuse me," then he disappeared into the back of the RV. I was relieved that he didn't seem to be too curious about us; and, since I did not want to introduce myself to him, I said, "I'm going to take out the garbage."

Max looked down the hall, then turned and whispered, "You don't want to meet Junior – he's a _real_ reenactor."

" _Real_ reenactors don't need _extra_ blankets," I said sarcastically. I tied the top of the bag, went out the door and walked swiftly toward a dumpster that was setting at the edge of the camping area. I disposed of the garbage and turned to wait for Junior to leave.
Chapter XXII

11:00 pm

While I was standing next to the dumpster, Anna appeared, walking toward the RV. "Anna," I called. She turned to look but kept walking and turned back toward the RV when she did not see me. "Anna," I called, again.

She turned again and peered through the darkness, moving her head from side to side. "Ian?"

"Over here." She walked toward me, but I stayed out of the light.

"Where are you?"

"Here, by the dumpster."

"How nice," I heard her say. Then she caught a glimpse of me and asked, "What are you doing out here?" When she got closer, her eyes grew wide and she exclaimed, "You shaved!" After taking a closer look she laughed. "Looks like you had a difficult time of it, too." Numerous pieces of toilet paper were still stuck to my face.

I took Anna's hand and pulled her into the shadows.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked.

"I've got to talk to you, but wait a minute."

"Okay," she said warily. Then she looked at me and whispered. "Have you stopped bleeding yet?"

"Probably." I reached up and began rubbing my face to get the paper off.

"Here, let me." Anna pulled my hand down and removed the bits of paper from my face. "It's really you under all that hair, isn't it?"

"How _did_ you recognize me when you first saw me today?"

"I'd know those eyes anywhere," she said. Then she added, "Truthfully, I wasn't sure until you spoke my name."

"Shh," I whispered.

"What is it?"

I raised my finger to my mouth. Anna and I stood quietly and watched Junior walk from the RV back to the battlefield. When he was well beyond the range of our voices, Anna asked, "Why all the secrecy?"

"You won't believe what I saw tonight."

"Try me."

"You know many of the guys out there _are_ just ordinary guys, but some of them...." I proceeded to tell Anna about the different men I had talked with. She agreed that Ben had reason to be proud of his heritage and laughed along with me when I told her about Dexter and Reg and their friends. She had once watched them perform their hand-to-hand combat routine and regarded the act as pure spectacle. She, too, found it easy to believe that the men of the Virginia 1202nd might be found enjoying their fellowship at a hunting lodge or fishing camp as well as they did at a Civil War reenactment.

Then I told her about the men in the Union camp. She listened intently and occasionally nodding her head in agreement as I repeated comments made by Isaac, James or Gilbert. She thought that Gilbert's suggestions for improving the general authenticity of reenactments was clever and amusing.

As I ran out of things to say about my visit to the Union camp, I wondered what I would say next. I was hesitant to talk about what I learned while inside the _inner sanctum_ or while eavesdropping behind Leland's tent. Attempting to redirect the conversation, I asked, "So, how was dinner?"

"Dinner was fine," she replied, before quickly directed the conversation back to the reenactment. "So what else did you find out?"

"What else?" I asked – trying to stall.

"Yes, Ian. What else did you find out inside the camps? Don't hold out on me."

I looked down and said, "I don't think you want to know."

"Don't be silly. Of course I do," she responded. "Besides, just a few minutes ago you couldn't wait to tell me."

I began talking about the men inside the circle of tents and Anna became somber. As I described the spontaneous question-and-answer session and the music she listened intently. But when I explained to her how some reenactors insisted that the Civil War was fought over the question of sovereignty and had little or nothing to do with slavery, she interrupted me and said, "You know what's wrong with them – they're like little _boys_ , defeated little boys."

"Okay," was all I could say before she continued.

"Like some boys, they can't tell the difference between real and imaginary threats. You know what motivates them?"

"What?" I asked, although I knew she would have continued without my reply. She was clearly agitated.

"They are threatened by people who are different than they are and they segregate themselves to avoid having to accept others. Neanderthals."

Anna paused as if waiting for me to respond. I stood silently and she said, "I'm sorry, I'm just angry."

I was disturbed too, but I preferred to talk dispassionately about what I had seen and heard. "I understand your anger," I said.

"I would hope so." She took a deep breath as if to release some of her frustration and continued, "You know, Ian, I have to wonder if they're happy with their own lives. Why else would they be so willing to go to great lengths to justify their beliefs even when those beliefs seem to represent a big step backward? They're like the remnants of a wildfire that's been beaten down time and again, flaring up every now and then until it either runs out of fuel or someone puts it out for good."

"That's quite an analogy."

"It's true?"

"How do you know it's true?"

"I just do."

"That's not good enough." I paused, waiting for Anna to reply. When she didn't, I continued. "Look, most of these guys are out here having fun or honoring their ancestors. At worst, there's a few that seem to want to question the commonly accepted history. Is there anything wrong with that – especially when there are many credible historians who would challenge their position. It's like an ongoing debate."

Anna was unmoved. "You're just being contrary," she said. "People like that never seem to face up to the reality that the problem lies within. It's too easy to blame others. What worries me most is that the problem is widespread and it perpetuates itself from generation to generation. They deal with their unhappiness by trying to change the world to fit with their own self-image – often to the detriment of others.

"I've always believed that education was the key to overcoming mistakes and limitations of the past, but people, like some of the ones out there, make me think that things will never change. I've always believed that each generation has the responsibility to move humanity one step closer to living harmoniously." She sighed as if weighed down by the frustration she felt and added, "Ian, I'm beginning to think that maybe I'm too idealistic."

"Of course you are," I teased.

Anna gave me a weak smile and said, "Maybe this was a bad idea."

All I could say was "Uh-huh." I stood there considering whether I should tell her more. I knew that if I said more about what I had seen she would become angrier, so I suggested, "Why don't we take a walk?"

"That's a good idea."

We walked to the road and turned in the direction of Anna's house. I was still thinking about the conversation I'd overheard between Leland and Junior. Anna must have sensed my preoccupation.

"So did you find out anything else?" she asked.

"Well, not really."

"That wasn't very convincing."

"Oh... oh, it's nothing."

"Nothing," she said. "Ian, if there's more, I want to hear it. I won't be surprised by anything you might tell me."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

"How can it be any worse?"

"Well," I said and began by reminding her about our conversation with Owen and then started talking about what I had overhead in the tent. "I assume you know what a catechism is?"

"Yes," she replied.

"These men are distributing them to cities in the South. They're meant to educate children about the Civil War."

"Do you know what's written on them?"

"Well, I happen to have a copy."

"With you?"

"Yes." I opened the Confederate jacket and pulled out the catechism.

Anna snatched the paper from my hand and started to read aloud. When she finished reading all questions and answers she dropped her hands and said, "I can't believe this."

"I know. It is hard to believe they'd go to such extremes to indoctrinate children into some kind of neo-Confederate world – but hey," I said weakly, "doesn't the church do the same sort of thing?"

"No," replied Anna, "their methods might be the same, but their _motives_ are different. One would like to believe that what the church does is based on love and wanting people to learn to work together and care for one another; what these guys are doing is entirely different."

I shuffled my feet. Anna cut her eyes at me and asked, "That's not all, is it?"

"What makes you think that?"

"I can just tell."

I repeated the words that Leland's son said, although I made it clear that he wasn't allowed to finish his statement. Anna immediately sat down with her back against a tree and continued her angry discourse. "That's horrible, that man has crossed over the line. The poor little boy doesn't even know what he's saying – he's the _living_ proof, Ian! He'll grow up to be just like his father and he'll teach _his_ children to think the same way."

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" she responded. "How can you say that? You know that's what's likely to happen."

I nodded.

"I have to talk to my father," she said. "He's got to put a stop to this."

"What can he do? He can't prove anything; he's only got my word to go on."

"Maybe he can have their lease voided."

"What about the others?" I asked. "You know, like Ben and Reg."

"They'll find other places to go. It's not like it's difficult to find a reenactment."

"So will Leland and Junior."

Anna looked up at me and said, "I would make it right for everyone if I could – God knows I would. But I can't just sit around and do nothing when my home is being used as a recruiting center for a white supremacist organization. And to think there are hundreds, probably thousands more like that boy. I'd like to go over there and tell his father a thing or two."

"He'd deny everything."

"He probably would." Anna stood up, "So what can we do?"

"Do? I doubt that we could do anything that would make a difference."

"Well, they won't be back next year. As I see it, _any_ participation in reenacting is a tacit approval of the hatred that motivates white supremacist. In my mind they're all guilty of perpetrating hatred – even if only by association."

"No pun intended," I responded.

"What?"

"Nothing. Come on, let's walk," I said.

"Good idea. I can't think of the last time I was this upset."

"And too think you can thank me for that."

We walked silently on the road toward the Foxharte's home. After a few minutes we began to talk again. We talked mostly about thru-hiking. "It's a good thing that you're doing for your brother," said Anna.

"It's not just for him."

"What do you mean?"

"I needed a break," I answered.

"Are you on sabbatical?"

"Yes."

"When do you have to be back at work?"

"September."

"Nice break."

"Yeah."

"Do you still like living out West?" she asked.

"Not as much as I used to. It's a forward-thinking place. Certainly, there's a greater emphasis on environmental issues. But it's crowded and expensive; and, it's, it's just not home."

"You miss Virginia."

"Yes."

Anna nodded and said, "I would too. You know, Ian, it's strange."

"What is?"

"Part of the reason I love Virginia so much is because of its rich history. Yet, at the same time, I'm embarrassed by some of the history."

We walked out of the trees that, from the battlefield, blocked the view of the Foxhartes' house. I looked up and the night sky was clear. Other than the stars the only visible light came from the house and a sole window in one of the barns. I told Anna, "I really like this farm."

"Thank you."

"What's that light in the barn?" I asked.

"It's probably Zeb."

"Zeb," I said sounding startled. "I forgot to tell you, I thought I saw him out there."

"How would you know him?"

"I think he gave Max and me a ride down from the mountain today. We rode in the back of a truck just like yours – except it had two Confederate flag stickers in the back window."

"That was our truck. I scraped those stickers off this morning. Zeb must have picked you up when he was returning from Lexington. Daddy had just bought the truck and sent it to be serviced. Zeb picked it up." Anna paused for a second. Then she said, "So, Zeb's participating in reenactments."

"I can't be sure it was him." I recalled that earlier in the day Anna had expressed some misgivings about Zeb, but that didn't stop me from saying, "I thought you might be dating him."

"Zeb," she exclaimed. "Don't be silly. I told you I was seeing a therapist."

"Oh, that's right. So who is this therapist?"

"His name is Drew."

"How long have you known him?"

"I met him after Mom had her first surgery, but I didn't really get to know him until Daddy started rehab."

I wanted to know if Anna loved him, but I couldn't think of any tactful way to ask her. Finally I just said, "So?"

She looked at me and shrugged her shoulders, "So?"

"You like to leave the hard part for me, don't you?"

"Hard part – what are you talking about?"

"Come on, Anna." I stopped walking and turned to face her. "Do you love him?"

"Oh, that. Well." She paused. "I don't know. I mean I do like him a lot."

"He's the guy you were with tonight?"

"Yes."

"How did you get rid of him?" I said, revealing a mild agitation.

"I didn't _get rid of him_ ; I simply told him the truth. I told him that I'd run into an old friend and that I wanted to get home early – that I wanted to spend some time with my friend."

I sensed that my questions were an annoyance so I changed my approach. "'Some time with an old friend.' 'Old friend,' I guess that's me."

Anna looked at me. I poked out my lower lip and she laughed. "You silly boy."

Relieved to hear her laugh, I realized that pestering her about Drew was not a good idea. Besides, I knew I shouldn't be surprised that she was seeing someone. I didn't say any more about Drew; instead I said, "Thank you – for thinking about me."

"You're welcome," she said.

I reached for her hand and slipped my fingers between hers. She smiled.

Looking into the northern sky, I said, "You have almost as good a view of the stars here as we have on the trail. No light pollution." I pointed overhead and said, "There's the Big Dipper."

"Can you find Ursa Major?"

When I first hiked the trail I learned a lot about the stars and constellations. I looked at the Big Dipper and pointed toward other stars surrounding the cup, "There's the Great Bear's head, his body and his feet."

"Ian, I'm impressed."

"I know something about the stars," I pleaded.

"Do you know the names of the stars in Ursa Major?" Anna asked.

"No, but I have the feeling I'm about to learn."

Anna pointed at the Great Bear's tail, "That's Alkaid, Mizar, Alioth, Megrez, Phecda..." After Anna named all the stars she began talking about how the Great Bear and the sub-cluster of stars commonly known as the Big Dipper had been important to different cultures throughout history. "The Big Dipper," she said, "is not a true constellation, but it is one of the most recognizable groups of stars in the sky. It's been identified as a wagon, a plow and a bull's thigh, and the Chinese consider it a symbol of government. Native Americans say that the bowl of the Big Dipper is a giant bear and that the stars of the handle are three warriors chasing the Bear. When the Big Dipper is low in the autumn sky the Indians say that the hunters have injured the giant bear and the blood caused the color of the leaves on the trees to turn red."

"Interesting."

"That's my favorite story about the Big Dipper."

"Didn't runaway slaves use it to find the way north?" I asked.

"Yes, the slaves even sang a song called 'Follow the Drinking Gourd' which contained a code that gave details about how to escape to Canada. Supposedly, a black man named Peg Leg Joe went from plantation to plantation teaching the song to the slaves."

"Where did you learn that?" I asked.

"Astronomy class. My professor also thought that the song 'Swing Low, Sweet Chariot' was a coded song."

I interjected, "Swing Low?"

"Yes. He said that the Big Dipper was the chariot and in the springtime it's low on the horizon in the early evening. As the evening progresses it swings up into the night sky and shows the way 'home'."

"That's strange," I said.

"It's not strange. It's sensible."

"That's not what I meant. It's _strange_ that I often hear Max whistling the tune in the mornings. And, I was humming it earlier tonight, though I didn't realize it at first."

"Oh," replied Anna.

I was intrigued, but I forgot my own curiosity and said to Anna, "I wish I had taken astronomy."

"Can you find the North Star?" she asked.

"Of course." I pointed to the one side of the cup of the Big Dipper and moved my hand along the same line. "There."

"What more does a thru-hiker need to know?"

I stopped walking and looked straight up. The Milky Way, that broad band of heavenly illuminated night sky that stretches across opposing areas on the horizon, was visible. I lowered my head and saw that Anna was looking overhead as well. I stood quietly, admiring the silhouette of her long neck and the womanly lines of her body, waiting for her to look down. She lowered her head. I slid my fingers through her hair, and leaned forward to kiss her. She resisted, lightly placing two fingers on my lips. "Not now," she said compassionately. "Today has been a bit overwhelming."

I first noticed that she said "Not now" and wondered if that meant maybe later. But I did not pursue her tentative response; instead, I repeated, "Overwhelming?"

"Well, yes. Hasn't it been that way for you? I mean, we just run into each other and then" – she paused – "the revelation about these reenactments. I can't stop thinking about that boy."

"You're really are upset, aren't you?"

"Yes – very," she replied.

"You make me feel like I should do something."

"I might have wanted that a few minutes ago, but the more I think about it, the more I realize it's not up to you."

"Who then?" I asked.

"I sometimes doubt that anyone can make a difference. It's ashamed that some people struggle all their lives for power, when all they really want is to feel important. People will try all kinds of things to feel important – gaining power is just one of them. Those who are not successful look for excuses and sometimes the easiest excuse is to blame others. That's what those white supremacists are up to, and unfortunately others behave the same way. It seems like the innocent people are the one's that get hurt – I mean really hurt – by the struggle between races.

"I know a professor who worked at Kennedy University who lost his job after he turned down a minority applicant for graduate school. The applicant had a 2.1 undergraduate GPA, low GRE scores and had already received C's in two graduate courses he'd taken as a special student. Had he already been in the program he would have been on probation for having the C's and a GPA below 3.0. Anyway, after my friend made his decision someone from Affirmative Action showed up and asked him to reconsider. At first he agreed to admit the applicant, under certain conditions, but within minutes of leaving the meeting he realized he'd been pressured into doing something that wasn't right. If the applicant had been accepted, the door would have been open to anyone with an undergraduate degree to enter the program, regardless of GPA, standardized test scores and even after demonstrating an _inability_ to succeed in graduate school. Anyway, after my friend backed out of the arrangement the Affirmative Action officer contacted someone on the Board of Visitors. The next year my friend's tenure application was turned down."

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"How did he find out that the Affirmative Action person had gone to the Board of Visitors?"

"He also had a contact on the Board. In fact, his contact offered to testify on his behalf – if he had wanted to file suit. But he didn't. He didn't want to put his Board friend in that position and he said he really didn't want to be associated with an institution that was politically corrupt."

"Good for him," I said.

"Yes and no," replied Anna. "He's now struggling to keep open a small bookstore in Charlottesville – the victim of a one-upsmanship power struggle. Have you ever wondered how many innocent people have been hurt by that kind of behavior?" She sighed. "I don't know how much longer I can live here. I love this place; but I'm almost ashamed to say that. I'm losing tolerance for some of the people that live here.

"I live here, in the middle of nature's bounty. There's little one can do in life that's more inspiring than to climb up to the peak of Sharp Top and look down into the valley. At sunrise, or sunset, in the middle of a day in early Spring when the leaves on the trees in the valley have opened and the those on the mountaintops haven't come out yet, you feel like you've been invited to sit next to God and look down at his creation. And then, there are the people who live here. Most of them are generous and kind and thoughtful, they understand what a gift it is to live here. But there are others, like the members of the local white supremacist group. I'm sure some of those guys out there are card carrying members."

"Umm."

"There was a time when my father would have sold this farm to get away from people like that, but now he doesn't seem to care. He and Mom are enjoying a renewal of their relationship." Anna sighed, "After we almost lost Mom."

I gave Anna a little smile.

"Daddy's tried to get me to leave, but I've been too afraid – for them. Yet, everyday that goes by, every time I leave the farm, I see things that make me think I'm living in the middle of a place where the civil rights movement turned out differently than it did in most other places. I feel trapped, Ian. And, with everything that's happened today...." Anna stopped talking. I looked at her and saw her eyes filled tears. I reached out and she buried her head in my shoulder. When she finally lifted her head she said, "I have to do something."

A few minutes later, we joined hands and started walking back toward the camp. At first, Anna gripped my hand tightly and pulled me along. We did not speak, and, in our silence, I began to wonder again about the letter that Anna sent to me after Max and I had started hiking. Was she breaking the relationship off for good? Or, perhaps, in an attempt to rekindle our relationship, she was inviting me for a visit. These and other possibilities made it difficult for me to contain my curiosity.

At some point, I realized that our pace had slowed, and that Anna, while still holding my hand firmly, was now walking beside me. She was smiling and relaxed and seemingly preoccupied with positive thoughts.

The moment seemed right to ask, "So, are you ready to tell me what was in that letter?"

"Ian," she laughed, making me feel small. "If you must know. I tried to rewrite the letter tonight, but I couldn't find the same words."

"Were you telling me that it's over?"

"Oh, goodness no," she said. "Is that what you thought?"

I sighed and said nothing. We took a few more steps and I felt a breeze nip at the hair on top of my head.

"Ian, do you remember what I said to you when we first kissed?"

"First kissed? You mean while we were sitting in the porch swing at Nan's house?"

"Yes."

"Well, yes; I was thinking about that tonight."

"When?"

"When I was out on the battlefield," I replied.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"I like that. What else were you thinking about on the battlefield?"

"Oh nothing, really?"

"I see." Anna said, as if she didn't believe me.

When we arrived at the truck, I said good night to Anna and walked through the trees to the spot where my tent was set up. I looked out at the Confederate encampment. In the dying firelight the Confederate battle flag in the center of the camp was folded once around the pole, slowly shifting from side to side. I used to think it was a pretty flag. "But it means many different things to many different people," I said quietly to myself. Still standing there, I looked out at the Confederate encampment and the dark battlefield in the distance. I imagined men lined up ready to march up the gentle slope toward the Union encampment. Some would hide behind rocks while others marched side by side, some would engage in hand-to-hand combat, another would carry the battle flag and a boy would beat a drum. At some point they would all sing out in a chorus of shouting and hollering – a Rebel Yell.

The vision faded and I walked over to my tent, crawled inside and got into my sleeping bag. Max was spending the night in the comfort of Owen's RV. I could have done the same, but I wanted to be alone.
Chapter XXIII

May 27th

Sometime before four o'clock in the morning I awoke to the sound of something stirring just outside my tent. I looked out. It was still dark; there was no sign of a sunrise along the eastern skyline and the moon was low in the west. The leaves and needles on the trees were fixed in the damp, night air. Nothing was moving.

I do not like waking so early. When lying alone in my tent before sunrise, I sometimes succumb to negative thinking. I have never been the kind of hiker who worries about being attacked by a wild animal or having a snake crawl into the tent – that's not the kind of negative thinking I'm talking about. When I wake in the predawn hours of the morning I feel empty and tired, the way one feels when abruptly awakened only minutes after going to sleep following an exhausting day. It's hard to think positive when you're that tired. Instead, it's easy to obsess about events or people that you cannot control. I sometimes fixate on overly generalized assumptions about the crassness of business executives and lobbyist and their insensitivity toward our air and rivers and bays. Or, I become angry thinking about how others continue to "grow" the bottom-line at the expense of the wellbeing of children by allowing the proliferation of violence in the media. I obsess about the materialism and the "fix it with a pill" expectations of our society. Most of all, I worry about what's to become of the mountains and valleys.

This morning was no different. I started out thinking about the events of the previous day. I had witnessed far more than I had expected. I knew that a few days from now, when Max and I were once again hiking the crest of the Blue Ridge, the harder edges of the experience would be replaced by the dull images of fading memories. Nonetheless, I was troubled by some of what I had learned. I was uneasy with what appeared to be a deliberate effort to recruit members into a neo-Confederate world that sometimes crossed-over into the darker world of white supremacy. I became tense when I thought about the systematic and seemingly one-sided way children were being taught to think about the South, the Civil War and the Confederacy. I tried to convince myself that it was just an alternative view of history that may be as valid as any other. I was no historian; and, even Anna agreed that it was impossible for historians to be unbiased. For some reason, however, I was not satisfied with that explanation.

Restless with uncertainty, I tried to distract myself by thinking about Anna. But when the first vision of her sharing an intimate moment with her therapist friend popped into my head I decided to think about something else. I recalled some of the brighter moments Max and I experienced on the trail – beautiful sunrises and sunsets; the spontaneous laughter that overcame us as water ran down our faces the first time we hiked in a downpour; how, sometimes late in the afternoon the deer comfortably gather nearby our campsite to graze; and the conversations we often share with other hikers while sheltered inside a trail hut. Despite these efforts, I kept reliving the encounters of the day before. It was clear that I would not get back to sleep, so I unzipped my sleeping bag, crawled out, reached down and slipped on my shoes. I climbed out of the tent, walked to the edge of the spectators' camp and looked out over the battlefield. The Confederate battle flag was hanging limp, lifeless against the pole.

Grudgingly, I confronted the vivid images that dominated my thinking and began sorting through the details of the past evening. I rationalized that the South had changed in many ways, perhaps most notably in some of its attitudes toward racism. I reflected that the notion of white supremacy had become diluted, and was confident that the intensity of the anger between black and white Americans had diminished. I was also confident that the number, or at least proportion, of white Southerners who believed that they were somehow superior to people of color was only a small, small fraction of what it once had been. The man I talked to inside the circle of tents expressed that his motivation for participating in reenactments was to promote an alternative view of the causes and outcomes of the Civil War. Although the accuracy of his perspective was debatable and despite my lingering doubts, I _wanted_ to trust his intentions. Most others, it seemed, were like Ben, celebrating their heritage, or like the men of the Virginia 1202nd, simply enjoying each other's company while passing time on a crisp Spring evening. When I thought about Junior and Leland, I told myself that they represented an obscure minority that was clinging to a fading mentality. In America the tolerance for racism was low – the press, educators, politicians and the masses understood that the idea of white supremacy was simply wrong and were quick to ridicule racist behaviors. Surely, that was the way it was now.

I tried to convince myself that most people involved in Civil War reenactments understood that racism persisted among some participants. But I did wonder if they seriously considered the implication; that is, as Anna said, that participation is a "tacit approval of the hatred that motivates white supremacists". Obviously, some participants recognized this problem and had taken measures to rid Civil War reenactments of racist influence. The headline: "Mississippi Reenactors Turn Their Backs on the Klan," seemed to provide some evidence. I really didn't know the details of this story, but I hoped that it represented progress.

Despite what I wanted to believe, I remained uneasy. It seemed obvious that both racism and the various means by which it was perpetuated _were_ thriving inside the large tent that stood out among the circle of tents in the Confederate camp. For a moment I thought I understood the intensity of the anger Anna showed when she had said, "I have to do something".

As I paced back and forth among the campers and RVs, the sound of my steps was muffled in the decaying matter beneath my feet. I kept walking, retracing the steps that Anna and I had taken only hours earlier – beyond the spectators' camp, onto the hard-surfaced road and through the trees toward the Foxhartes' home.

On that dark morning I was trying to make myself tired, hoping that as I walked my feelings about the events of the day before would wane. Eventually, I became weary and willing to forgive myself for not wanting to speak out. I returned to my tent, finally ready to fall asleep.

I sat down and felt thankful that in a few hours Max and I would return to hiking. "Anna's right, if there's a problem here," I whispered, "it is not mine." And so, I concluded that I was just a bystander who had, partly by chance and partly by curiosity, discovered a scheme that was intended to spread the alternative viewpoint that some call a neo-Confederate movement and others call white supremacy – it was not for me to decide. Nor was it up to me to speak out against Leland or Junior. Even if Leland's plans bothered me, it was not my place to interfere. Besides, I reminded myself once again, "I've seen evidence in the stack of newspaper articles in Owen's RV that others are trying to expose and otherwise keep the white supremacist movement under control." I lay down, satisfied that I had given due consideration to all that I had witnessed on the reenactment battlefield.

********

I closed my eyes and slowly sank into an imaginary world, a world that was much like the one I had day-dreamed of hours ago while standing in Thomas's shower with hot water running down my back – that gentle massage that somehow caused me to envision a place where it was easy to persuade people to live in harmony. Living in harmony, why not? I took deep breath and exhaled slowly.

Dissolving comfortably into semi-consciousness, the sounds outside my tent, the smells inside, and the hard feeling of the uneven earth beneath my supine body faded. As I lay there, I felt relieved that I had not allowed the loneliness of the early hours of the morning to cloud my thinking. I congratulated myself for managing not to become a more stereotypical Southerner – a kind of bigoted demon one often reads about in second rate novels.

It was in that sleepy state that an inexplicable image returned – a young Max and the large woman were standing in the kitchen of my childhood home in Charleston. I wanted to speak to Max and the woman, but the image faded and I began reliving another moment from the same part of my past. I was lying on a couch, and I felt a distant, yet convincingly real and gentle touch of a woman. My youthful head was in her aged lap, and the base of her heavy palm lightly touched my temple as she ran her thick, arthritic fingers though my soft and tangled hair. Her dress was simple, clean and light blue; and, a faint smell of bleach drifted about the room. I heard her humming a soothing tune that seemed to fill a void left behind by someone that was lost long ago. Her fondness for me was obvious, as was the sense of security and perfect comfort that she gave to me.

********

Startled by the sound of footsteps, I sat-up and looked out my tent. "Betty?" I whispered. There was no reply. As the dream faded and my eyes adjusted to the faint light, I looked around intently, but no one was there.

"Did I say, Betty?" I asked myself before I smiled at the memory of a woman walking up the driveway that led to my boyhood home. Betty visited our home once a week. She helped cook, clean, and take care of Max and me while our Mom went out for the day. I was no more than five or six years old when I last saw her; until today, I hadn't thought about her in years. As I sat remembering Betty, I was filled with an old, yet warm and comfortable feeling.

As a child, I had a loving relationship with Betty. She was always kind. She knew how much I loved mashed potatoes and cookies. Some days, when she had enough time, she would peel potatoes, boil them, and then whip them and lather them with more butter than any modern, health-conscious cook would use in a week. On other days, she would make cookies or brownies. Max and I always argued about who got to lick the spoon. When she was tired, she would sit and close her eyes. "Are you asleep?" I would ask.

"Just resting my eyes, child. Just resting my eyes."

Betty was a large woman. I don't know that she was tall – adults always seem tall to children – but her ankles were thick with edema and she waddled when she walked. Her arms were sturdy. Some days when the work was done and we were tired, she would sit on the couch and I would crawl up next to her and lay my head in her lap. She would hum and gently scratch my head. I was lucky – everyone should be so lucky. Betty was the first person outside of my own family that showed me what it meant to unconditionally love someone.

I started to hum – the same spiritual that I often heard Betty hum. She hummed with a soft, deep resonance. Mine was suppressed, inhibited by the concern that I might wake someone. I hummed for a few seconds before a revealing thought occurred to me. "Max? Why, it's the same... 'Swing low...' Wait a minute."

The connection was perplexing at first. But, the more I thought about Betty and Max and the fact that he often whistled the same song, the more I remembered pieces of other events, events that were previously a mystery to me. I recalled my mother watching television and crying at the sight of a young black man standing stoically in front of a crowd of white people as they spat and shouted at him. She called to my father, "Honey, come here."

When my father entered the room he asked, "Is that Betty's son?" My mother nodded. "Oh no," he said.

Betty's house was burned a few days later. No one was hurt, but when my father drove by he said, "Son of a bitch, I knew something like this would happen." Minutes later we stopped at another house. Betty, her son, and several other people were sitting out on the porch. My parents and Max got out of the car. They asked me to come, but I was frightened by the many strangers standing around. Betty and her son talked with my mother and father. Max stood quietly next to my father who was resting his hand on Max's shoulder. After talking for a few minutes, my parents hugged Betty, and my father shook her son's hand. When Betty reached out to hug Max, he instantly wrapped his arms around her waist and would not let go. My mother and father finally pried his hands loose, pulled him away and returned to the car. Tears were streaming down his face – Betty's too.

As best I can recall, I asked, "What's wrong, Daddy?"

He answered, "Betty has to move away."

"Why?"

"Because bad people burned down her house and she has no place else to live."

"Where will she go?"

"New Jersey," he said.

I sat there quietly for a minute, trying to comprehend all that I was witnessing. I realized that Betty and her family were lucky to avoid having been hurt by the fire or the people who started it. I also knew that New Jersey was far away and that we might never see Betty again.

As we drove away, Max clawed at the window, "Betty, Betty," he cried. His body was shaking. I was hurt too, but it was Max's reaction that I vividly remember. I doubted that the kind of pain he was feeling could ever be relieved. As I listened to Max's sobs, I felt compelled to say something. The only words that my juvenile brain could summons were the words that I'd heard my father say when he drove by the smoking remains of Betty's house. "Son of a bitch," I repeated.

Sitting, half-in and half-out of my tent, recalling the way I felt when my father drove away and left Betty and her family behind, I suddenly understood that my feelings where stronger than I had wanted to admit. Fragments of sentences spoken by Gilbert and Art, as they argued about the differences between neo-Confederates and white supremacist darted around in my head. I saw myself standing at the edge of the circle of tents talking with the Confederate reenactor as the banjo player repaired his instrument. I relived the moment I almost fell into Leland's tent, the moment when his son spoke of not being prejudice. Visions of the remains of Betty's house smoldering and Max crying out when he realized that he might never see her again made me angry. Then there was Max sitting alone by the fire, swirling his coffee cup, whistling and, on some level I believe, remembering Betty. She and her family had been assaulted in the '60s, a time when many brave men and women, mostly black, suffered because they stood up to the hatred spat upon them by bigots. Some, like Martin Luther King Jr., Medgar Evers, and too many others died at the hands of white supremacist – died as they called to others to rise up against an ancient form of hatred.

Thoughts and recollections circled though my head until I grew frustrated with my inability to clear my mind; so, in a desperate attempt to break the cycle of obsessive thoughts, I decided to write in my journal. As a teenager, I learned that whenever I became agitated or angry that merely attempting to write down my thoughts had a calming effect. So I grabbed my backpack, released the drawstring, and pulled the pack open. A vintage, Boy Scout cooking kit was stored in a mesh stuff bag that was setting in top of the pack. When I pulled the bag out the kit fell onto the ground. I picked the kit up, intending to put it back in the bag; but, as it passed in front of my face I caught a glimpse of an odd reflection. Slowly, I raised the kit up in front of my face again and I saw a gruesome distortion of my own reflection.

"Whoa, there's a face only a mother could love," I said before I laid the kit down and reached for my journal.

A few minutes later I was writing furiously...

*** IWH ***

...What about me? If bigotry can be measured across a continuum, or some convoluted plane, how would I be measured?

In my early childhood my family lived in a persistently segregated society. I went to a segregated elementary school, a segregated church and lived in segregated neighborhood. I vaguely remember eating in restaurants where the patrons were all white. Memories of other boundaries are less clear to me. Nonetheless, I know the boundaries were there and on some level I must have understood.

In my parent's home I was immersed in a culture that was little more than a vestige of the once slaveholding South. Betty's weekly presence in our home was evidence enough. I wasn't there by choice, but one could argue that my parents were; and, when I was a child, they were the greatest influence on my life. Were my parent's bigots? I would not want them to be judged that way, but if their lives were measured by today's standards they may be judged as bigots.

... _but labeling my parents as bigots seems sad and superficial. I think of my father growing up on a farm in rural South Carolina, beginning work in the tobacco fields at age six. His father died when he was still a child, leaving him and his mother, two older brothers and younger siblings to manage the farm. Dad attempted to get a college degree, but when he dropped out for a semester to earn enough money for another term he was drafted into the Korean War. When he returned home he got a job and met my mother._

Mom's life before she married was different. As the daughter of a military officer, her young life was more privileged. Any reflections on her youth that were passed down to me were more about how she tomboyishly gathered a basketful of marbles by beating the "boys" at their own game or sneaking away with her girlfriends on a Saturday afternoon to see an Elvis Presley movie. Mom said little about the cultural issues of her time and I didn't ask. It was as if there were none to be considered between the final days of World War II and the time when I became conscious of my own existence.

So, for me, it "is" sad and too superficial to judge my parents in the waning days of their lives, having worked hard only to endure the financial hardships that come with personal bankruptcy, having held jobs out of necessity and a strong desire to provide monetary support to their sons as they attended college or to send a birthday card with a twenty dollar bill enclosed....having successfully managed life as responsible citizens to then be told in the waning days of your existence that your generation had it all wrong can only leave one despondent.

Somewhere along the way, though, things began to change. In the heat of the Civil Rights movement, my school was segregated one year and integrated the next. But, when integration began, the segregation continued; only the form had changed. The disadvantages of the less-privileged were clear as they were led to the back of the class, and on the whole, performance in the classroom was different between the races. For some, disparities like these were justification for continuing a more formal segregation, but for those who measured carefully, who were patient enough to let change beget results, the successes piled-up, ever so slowly, one-by-one. Doctors, lawyers, professors and more, until eventually, the successes came too frequently to ignore and, somewhere among the scattered stories of success I discovered that I was a member of a culture in transition. Talk of differences began to give way to common ground. While some held on to the past, others were blind to what was on the outside and uniquely perceptive to what mattered most – the inside. Others retained an awareness of the past as they struggled to move forward.

I don't know how or when, and, I'm not sure that "my" transformation is complete – honesty, may be the best I can offer – but somewhere along the way I changed. Slowly, I paid less attention to the outside and more to the inside. Eventually, I found myself more frequently questioning my own superficial judgments, or dismissing them altogether and embracing non-judgment when judgment was not necessary; and, practicing patience and striving for empathy when judgment was required.

Though I am old enough to have children, children who could be well into the age of abstract thinking, I have none. But in our youth, I have seen a further transformation. So many youth of today who have a snapshot knowledge of the 60's and 70's, and only limited experience with the 80's, seem to have a different set of filters through which they see the world. To many of them, color is either not an issue or something to be embraced as an opportunity to share diverse viewpoints and experiences.

Yet, I sometimes wonder if my simplification is at all correct. Has my world changed so much in three generations – it's hard to believe that permanent change can happen that fast? If so, perhaps I should be grateful and recognize the debt that I owe to others. I'm not like Leland, partly, because my parents, yes my parents, valued the individual's right to make up their own mind, especially about sensitive issues. I want to believe that they tried to guide me with "open minds" and answer my questions as truthfully as they could. Regardless of their personal thoughts and feelings they wanted to leave me to decide for myself – at least on a conscious level. It was as if they understood that their view of the world was limited by the past, by their past in particular, and they stood aside at the right times for Max and me to decide for ourselves.

Then there is Anna, and others like her. Anna is a passionate woman. One of her passions is insisting that all people are worthy of being treated with respect. She also remains steadfastly hopeful that education is a key to understanding one another and enabling mutual respect. She is like the youth of today; it's tempting to say that she was born a generation too early, but in every generation there are people like Anna – writers, activist and even some politicians.

Then there is Max; as his brother, I've seen his pain, pain inflicted by the hateful actions of others that hardened his bond with Betty. Max learned about hate in a hard way and because of his experience he likely has more compassion for those who are harmed or helplessly marginalized by others. Max has always had compassion, even when it wasn't in his best interest.

And, finally – there was Betty. I wasn't sure why she returned to me, unless she came back to nudge me forward. If only I could talk to her.

So, where does this leave me? I have no frigging idea.

There is no single despicable act of bigotry that holds me back. In fact, I could point to spontaneous acts that might be used to defend me against any accusations that I am a bigot. But I am not blind to my own roots, and there is a collection of small slights and revealing prejudice thoughts that weigh me down. If nothing more, the transformational age that I live in has taught me to spot the slights, to stop them and to avoid them. But, as any victim of many slights might say, "so what"? Knowing this, how can I fairly judge myself? Instead, I suppose that it is for others, perhaps others like Isaac to judge me.

Chapter XXIV

5:30 am, or thereabout

Light from various manmade sources cast their fixed beams through the haze. I had been sitting quietly for about fifteen minutes when a small, bushy-tailed animal darted across the road that led to Anna's house. An instant later, I saw something moving toward me. Emerging as a silhouette against a misty backdrop, I could not make it out at first. I sat, staring intently. It was tall and oddly shaped, like an animal with long, muscular legs and a torso that narrowed unnaturally above the hips. I could see a head and shoulders, but the arms, if there were any, were not swinging by its side. There was a distinctive rhythm to the gentle way the torso slowly rocked from side to side. Then I heard the sound, the "clip-clop" of horseshoes against the hard surface of the road. Step by step, horse and rider emerged from the mist.

Who is this, I wondered – someone coming to participate in the morning battle? Is this some kind of ritual, a messenger perhaps? It seemed odd that there was no one else around – just a lone rider. The rider turned toward the battlefield and led the horse through a ribbon of light illuminating the steps of someone's RV. It was then that I saw that the rider, dressed in a long coat with the tail resting on the horse's withers, was carrying a flag; it was curled-up around the pole.

The rider passed through the spectator's camp and directed the horse toward the edge of the battlefield, moving along the border that ran from the Confederate to the Union camp. Struck by the oddity of what I was watching, I decided to follow, taking the opposite side of the field to avoid being noticed.

I quietly crept past the Confederate encampment, holding my breath when I passed by Leland's tent. At the edge of the camp, I looked across the field and barely made out the rider on the far side. I moved slowly, staying low to the ground and hiding behind trees whenever possible. I was peering out from behind a small evergreen when the rider stopped and dismounted, just past the crumbling stone wall that split the battlefield in half. I ran from the tree and crouched behind the stone outcroppings that the Confederate sharpshooters had used as cover.

The lone rider sat down beside the horse. I leaned back against the rocks.

Is this part of the reenactment that Rose Thompson failed to mention when she gave me the details of the Battle of Clear Creek? I could understand her not wanting to disclose all the details, especially if there was some surprise that added to the spectators' experience. But, I was sure that I had told her that we would not spend the night – knowing that, it seems that she might have at least hinted about this unusual event? I peeked over the rocks and saw the rider still sitting beside the horse.

A few minutes passed and I knew that at any moment the early risers and insomniacs would begin emerging from tents or fumbling around in their campers. Some would stir the remains of a fire from the night before; others would turn a dial to light a gas stove or warm an electric element. Most would be making coffee.

Twilight slowly turned to daylight. Several reenactors started to scurry about. When I, once again, looked across to the far side of the battlefield, the rider had one foot in the stirrup and was swinging the other leg over the saddle. The rider pulled forward, took the reins in one hand, held the flag in the other and sat as if waiting for the right moment to nudge the horse forward.

As I waited, I started to think about the soldiers that had died on the battlefield. The identity of those men and precisely what compelled each of them to fight remained a mystery, but I did know more about them than I had known before. I wondered if I should feel remorseful, questioning whether some of the harder feelings I'd felt after encountering reenactors inside the circle of tents were discounting the sacrifice of others. But, I was confident that Leland, and those like him, interpreted history in a way that conveniently supported their purpose. Perhaps Anna was right when she said that it was time someone stepped forward to challenge men like that?

The rider abruptly turned the horse towards the rocks, where I was hiding, then leaned forward and dug their heels into the animal's flanks. The horse reared slightly, started forward with a jump and bolted into a gallop. The pair accelerated and the rider leaned forward holding the flag low, half-unfurled, half-flapping, in the rush against the still morning air. Soon after the horse began to gallop, the two were bearing down on the opposite side of the field and the rider pulled gently on the reins.

The rider leaned back and pushed against stirrups. In unison with the movements of the rider, the horse slowed, shifted her weight back and pressed her hoofs into the soft soil.

Suddenly, something seemed odd. I was expecting to see the broad shoulders, muscular arms and unshaven face of a reenactor; instead, I saw the wide hips, rounded bosom and delicate hands of a woman. The rider was a woman – it was Anna. I might have jumped up and called out to her, but I was too surprised and too curious to see what she was up to. I sat there, spellbound, waiting to see what she would do next.

Anna gently laid the reins on the side of the horse's neck – a beautiful chestnut mare that I had noticed grazing in the pasture behind Anna's house. The mare turned, neighed and blew out hard.

"That-a-girl, let everybody know we're here." I heard Anna say. She was only a few yards away.

Without any hesitation, Anna dug her heels into the mare's sides a second time and took off, racing back to where they had started. The flag – a Confederate battle flag – was still loosely wrapped around the pole. When the two reached the other side, Anna quickly turned the mare around and stopped. I looked left, and then right, and saw crowds of shouting reenactors at the border of each camp. Some were running about, a few were shaking their fist in the air and others were pointing toward Anna.

Anna unfurled the flag and held it high above her head. She waved it back and forth and a loud cheer rose-up from the Confederate camp; then a musket shot rang out, perhaps a signal of approval sent to Anna, or perhaps a noise made to rouse any sleeping reenactors. More and more men emerged from the tents until the edges of the camps were lined with curious onlookers.

Once again, Anna punched the horse with her heels and leaned forward. She galloped across the field and I watched the flag billow and pop. I sensed great power when I heard the sound of hooves pounding the soft earth and the flag beating against the air. I empathized with Anna – imagining the exhilaration of the swift and rolling journey on the back of such a magnificent animal. As the horse slowed, Anna appeared calm and determined. The horse stopped and Anna held her still for a moment, as if she were gathering her thoughts. "This is it, girl," she said; and, just as the cheers from the reenactors began to die out, she bolted. She quickly reached the center of the field and pulled hard on the reins. The chestnut mare obediently struggled to overcome her momentum and clumps of dirt and grass flew into the air as they came to a halt.

Anna dismounted and stood holding the reins in one hand and the flag in the other. She turned to face the Confederate camp, raised the flag and waved it slowly. The approving cheers, whoops and whistles were more raucous than before; but, when she turned and did the same toward the Union camp, the response was muted.

Anna jammed the flagpole into the ground, reached into her pocket and pulled something out. The object fell from her hands. She bent over and quickly picked it up; somehow I knew that it was a box of matches.

Fearfully, I said, "She's going to burn the flag!"

Anna struggled to open the box with one hand. "Come on, come on," I heard her cry. She pulled the horse closer and used two hands to open the box while still holding the reins. She slid the box open and the matches fell out. She shook her head and laughed; then she bent over to pick one up.

While she was fumbling with the match, a brief volley – three or four shots – of musket fire rang out. The mare repeatedly pulled on the reins, but Anna steadfastly held tight. She was clearly frustrated and shaking, when she finally laid the head of the match squarely on the side of the box and pushed it. The match sparked and burst into flames. The mare pulled again, and Anna let her go. She cupped her hand around the flame and laid the match against the tip of the flag. Flames licked up along the edge and the flag started to burn. Anna pulled the pole from the ground and waved it slowly – back and forth – hard enough to fan the fire, but not hard enough to extinguish it. At first, the only sound I heard came from the flag flapping above Anna's head. I watched it burn, then I turned my head and saw men dressed in gray uniforms looking on in stunned silence. The flames grew larger and a quarter of the flag was quickly consumed.

Voices once again rose-up from the Confederate camp. The noise reached a fevered pitch, making a sound I had not expected to hear. It grew louder until it was unmistakable – the Rebel Yell. The roar intensified, and Confederate soldiers started running toward Anna. She stood in the middle of the field; vigorously waving the burning flag and starring down the Confederate Army as it charged forward. Union reenactors were also running toward her, but they ran silently.

Crouched behind the rocks, I realized that I was throbbing with fear and a strange awareness, as profound as anything I'd ever felt before. The reclusive, thru-hiker part of me wished that none of this had ever happened, that I'd listened to Max and stayed on the trail. But certain disconnected pieces of my past, some that I strained to keep hidden from myself and others that had lain dormant throughout the entirety of my adult life, suddenly came together. "Damn-it, Anna," I said, "what have you gotten me into?"

I stood up – my heart pounded, my legs pulsated, and the optical centers in my brain perceived sharp edges around the objects in front of me while I remained aware of movement in the periphery. I took off running toward the center of the field.

When I approached, Anna turned and faced me – still waving the flag. The flames were hot, and sizzling pieces of burning cloth dropped to the grass in front of us. The flag was more than half burned. Anna smiled. When I got close she said, "It's about time you got here."

"I hope you know what you're doing."

"And if I don't?" she replied.

The mass of charging Rebels was no longer yelling so loud, nor were they running as fast as when they started. The gentle, uphill slope and tall, wet grass grabbing at their feet had tired them. Only one man seemed to still be running hard, increasing his lead over the others whom had begun to jog and walk.

"Let's get the horse," Anna said, as she jammed the pole, with its tattered remnants of the burning flag, into the ground.

"Good idea," I reacted. I didn't know what Anna was thinking, but I hoped she was planning to get away from the approaching armies.

Anna turned to the mare. We walked slowly, trying not to spook her. Anna leaned forward and said, "Easy girl, easy," and reached for the reins. The mare was unsettled; she lifted her head and turned away slightly. "Easy, girl," Anna said again. One step away, she reached for the reins, but before she grasps them a loud _KABOOM_ sounded and slowly echoed around the valley. Someone in the Confederate camp had fired a cannon. Anna and I stood there, watching helplessly, as the spooked mare ran off.

"What now?" I asked.

"I'm ready for these guys."

"I'm glad you are." Panic set in as I looked back and forth at the opposing armies steadily advancing toward us. The lead pursuer from the Confederate camp was not far away; he was vigorously pumping his arms and driving his knees. The look on his face made his intent seem clear, and I felt an urge to run. That's when we saw an unexpected sight. Coming fast, from far across the field was a blue pickup truck. I froze when I saw Max, standing upright with his arms stretched out over the cab of the truck holding on tight.

"Max," I shouted, suddenly feeling more confident.

"Zeb," Anna added.

We glanced at each other and I said, "Why not get out of here."

"Ah," Anna hesitated, before she said, "okay."

We started to run for the truck, but we'd only taken a few steps when someone grabbed me from behind and said, "Not so fast, you coward." I turned, not knowing what to expect, and looked into the eyes of a reenactor – it was Ben. He grabbed my coat with both hands, pulled me close and said, "I ought'a kill you."

"Ben, it's me, I talked to you last night about your grandfather and Jedediah, ah, Jedidiah..."

"Powell," Ben offered and his expression changed when he recognized me.

Desperately, I said, "You've got to trust us."

" _Trust_?"

"Yeah. We can explain." I did not really know if we could, but I knew we would have to try.

Ben let go of my coat and turned to face his fellow reenactors. He said out of the corner of his mouth, "This better be good."

I stood there shaking and watching men from both camps circle around us. Most were gasping for air; some bent over holding their hands on their knees while others held their hands on their hips with their heads turned up. It appeared that everyone from both camps had turned out to see why someone had burned a Confederate battle flag. I'm sure they were also wondering why I was there.

Moments later the blue truck rolled up behind us. Max jumped out and walked over. Zeb stayed seated inside the cab.

Ben held a hand up as if keeping the growing crowd back. "He says he can explain."

"He better get on with it," said one Confederate reenactor.

Anna stepped forward and said, "I'll explain."

A man stepped forward, took off his cap and expressed his disbelief. "There's no _good_ explanation for what you just did," he said to Anna. His comment was followed by a universal "yeah" from the Confederate side. Many Union reenactors joined in as well.

From the back of the Confederate crowd I heard, "Let the woman have her say – we'll get our chance." Leland stepped forward from a mass of gray uniforms. He wasn't wearing his jacket, the red sash or his sword. He picked up the flagpole, stood up straight, glanced at me and finally glared at Anna. "Ms. Foxharte, I presume."

"Correct."

"Ms. Foxharte, I understand that this property belongs to your family. And, because it does, I recognize that, in some ways," he emphasized, "you were within your rights when you burned that flag. However, what you have done, and I speak for the men standing here with me – what you have done is insulting. So, would you please indulge us with an explanation?"

Anna stood silently, as if she was thinking about what to say.

I scanned the crowd, hoping to find a few familiar faces. Reg and Darin were standing with other reenactors dressed in blue – they avoided making eye contact with me. I recalled what Reg had said about not wanting to be around when real bullets started flying. He was talking about hunting with his friends in the Virginia 1202nd, but what was developing in front of us could easily disintegrate into a riot. I looked among the Confederates and saw Dexter towering above the men around him, but I did not recognize anyone else, except Leland and Junior.

"Well, Ms. Foxharte?" said Leland.

Anna starred at him. Her face was red and her jaw was clinched. She shook her head and said, "Where does one begin?"

No one spoke while Anna considered what to say.

She started with a question. "Do you live by a set of principles, Mr...."

"Call me Leland."

"Leland," acknowledged Anna.

"Of course I do."

"What principle or principles are you living by when you fly that flag?"

"Honoring one's heritage," Leland answered without hesitation.

"And, it doesn't matter that many people find that flag offensive?"

"No."

"It doesn't matter that that flag has a long history of being used by bigots as a way to instill fear in others?"

"No."

"So the principle of 'honoring one's heritage' is more important than people working together to overcome their differences?"

"No."

"That makes no sense."

"Of course it does," countered Leland. "No one can deny that the Southern Cross has a controversial past. But, _our_ aim is to put the controversy behind us. We fly that flag and other Confederate flags as a way to honor the better parts of the past."

"But who's past are you honoring – that of the bigots who taunted Black Americans during the Civil Rights Movement?"

"Isn't someone who, at first sight, _assumes_ that our flag symbolizes hatred or bigotry a bit of a bigot themselves?" Leland paused. The deliberate lifting of his eyebrows and tilting of his head implied that he was calling Anna a bigot. The crowd snickered with approval, but Anna's expression was unchanged. "We are honoring the history of the South, a way of life, and the sacrifice made by our ancestors. A life lost in battle to defend one's rights is a life worth honoring. If you see hatred and bigotry when you look at a Confederate flag, then blame those who taught you to see it that way, as well as others who share that vision."

"What about those who lost their lives defending principles that are in direct opposition to that flag." Anna added, "And, I don't mean Yankees. Throughout the late 19th and 20th century, that flag has been a symbol of those dedicated to the oppression of blacks. Surely you can't just disregard the violence that was endured by one generation after another. Given that history, you must be willing to accept that that flag is divisive."

Leland quickly cut his eyes at Reg and the other black reenactors. He put his hand to his chin, and for a moment I thought that he might ask for their opinion. But, he said nothing to them and relied on himself to counter Anna's argument. "You have me repeating myself," he said.

Anna gave a quick nod, as if to say she understood. She tried a different approach. "People around the world look to this country for leadership; we represent a great experiment. We are a nation that embraces differences. This nation is a refuge to those who seek to escape oppression. Perhaps what others revere most about us is the incomparable freedoms that our citizens enjoy. But, that flag – that flag," she repeated, "is the very antithesis of freedom."

Leland interjected, "Once again, you are mistaken. What was the North doing when it invaded the South? It was trying to take away the freedoms of our southern ancestors. To this day, the North supports an agenda that often pushes the limits of tolerance to an extreme that many find hard to accept. In addition to being a symbol of Southern sovereignty, that flag, as you keep referring to it, is a symbol to those who have the courage to stand-up and say no to those who would impose their will on others."

While Leland was talking, his son slipped through the crowd. He stood beside his father, who responded by placing his hand on his son's shoulder. The boy tugged on his father's sleeve, but Leland ignored him.

As the debate continued, the heads of those listening moved from side to side. The argument went back and forth in an endless volley. Anna would make a point, often seeking a higher principle, and Leland would counter, logically turning Anna's argument against her. The discourse went on until Anna finally reached for the highest principle.

"People who love humanity," she said, "would refrain from glorifying war. And, one would hope that they would explain their motives before acting in ways that others might find offensive." With a sigh, she added, "those who fly that flag today, seem to be insensitive to those who are offended. And worse, they seem to be energized by the controversy that they stir up." Anna's words had a certain finality, and she hung her head. I felt that she was saying, "That's the best I can do."

The crowd was silent, and the debate appeared to end in a draw. But, a draw was a victory for Leland. Anna's defense of higher principles would not change anything – "status quo" would be good enough for him. Most of his men rolled their eyes at one another, adding a smirk here and there; but refraining from any act of celebration. Leland's son, however, perhaps sensing the victory and not understanding the value of keeping silent, spoke out. "You told her," he said to his father.

Anna closed her eyes and a steely smile spread across her face. Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head; but she said nothing; and the words spoken by the young boy might have been forgotten if it had not been for the reenactor who added, "That he did." His comment was followed by uneasy laughter.

Angered by the comments, Anna jerked her head up and whispered, "Ian, I don't want to drag you into this, but I have to tell them what you've told me. It's the only real evidence I have."

"Okay," I replied without any hesitation. I realized, however, that while Anna could repeat the fragmented bits of what I had shared with her, it might not be good enough. She was right – to convince anyone in the crowd that burning the flag was justifiable she needed evidence that it symbolized more than Leland was willing to disclose. Other than repeating what I told her, I didn't know what she might say.

Anna shouted, "We're not done here." The crowd looked at her in disbelief.

I whispered to Anna, "Let me speak."

"I can't ask you to do that."

I turned to Anna. "You're not asking, I'm offering. I know you can handle it; but, it's what _I_ saw here last night that everyone needs to hear. _I'm_ the one that knows all the details."

She stood silent for a moment before she nodded and said, "That's true."

"So?"

"Okay."

I turned and looked at the crowd. Exhaling slowly, I pointed to Ben, "She didn't burn his flag," I began. "She didn't burn the flag of the Virginia 1202nd." I paused and thought about the neo-Confederates standing around the fire singing "Dixie" and the man I had talked to inside the circle of tents. I considered saying that she didn't burn their flag either, but I doubted that was true. I took another deep breath and pointed at Leland. "She burned your flag." Several reenactors stepped closer to Leland in an obvious gesture of solidarity.

I half expected Leland to become angry in response to my accusation, but he kept his cool and spoke firmly. "Don't you people get it? As I've said before, that flag is an important symbol to all of us. When she burned it we were all insulted."

"It may be an important symbol to everyone here, but, even you acknowledged that it means different things to different people."

"Many brave men and women, and even children, died for that flag," said Leland. "Their sacrifice has been desecrated."

"That's not true. We respect their sacrifice. It's not their sacrifice that concerns us; it's something else that we're worried about. Civil War reenacting may be a legitimate form of celebrating heritage for some, but for others it's nothing more than a clever way to advance the white supremacist movement." I could see that Leland was ready to respond to my comments, so I quickly added, "In fact, its better that way, isn't it? Racist, hiding behind the legitimacy of others."

"That's absurd," he said with a hint of irritation in his voice. "There are no racists around here. I can't speak for everyone, but I can speak for the Association of Southern Heritage. We denounce all forms of racism. In fact, we clearly denounce it in our creed – which is the _first_ thing you read in our charter. Furthermore, we celebrate the contribution that all men and women, black and white, made to the Confederacy. So I ask you, sir," Leland nodded toward Anna, "and Ms. Foxharte, to get in that truck and leave us alone. This has gone on long enough."

Reaching inside my jacket, I pulled out the catechism and held it up. "If you're so innocent, then why are you having this distributed to children in Charleston and Columbia and Savannah?"

Junior Squires stepped closer to Leland. I sensed that he recognized the papers that I held in my hand as the ones that were in his father's RV. Leland narrowed his eyes and, a few moments later said, "What about it? It's just an educational pamphlet. Haven't you ever seen one? We use them all the time. Someone has to make sure that our children understand the truth about the Civil War."

"It's filled with distortions," I said.

"For example?" Leland demanded.

I hastily opened the document and skimmed down the list. When I found the question I was looking for, I read. "Question number fifteen. How did the slaves feel about their masters? Answer number fifteen. They were faithful and devoted and were always – _always_ ," I repeated, "ready and willing to serve them."

"I see," said Leland. "Perhaps that question is not a hundred percent accurate, but it does convey the general sense of the relationship between slave and slave owners."

"How can you say that when you know that thousands of slaves escaped to freedom by way of the underground-railroad?"

"Thousands, ha," scoffed Leland. He lifted his arm in a grandiose gesture, "Now there's a distortion. I suppose you can back-up that one up." His comment was met with more laughter.

"There is plenty of evidence."

"And there is plenty of evidence to the contrary." I wanted to ask Leland to identify his sources, but he didn't give me the chance. "Appealing to higher principles didn't work, so now you question our interpretation of history," he said. "Anything to make us look bad, perhaps that's the real issue."

Many of the men in the crowd grumbled impatiently. But, others looked curiously at the document I held in my hand. I assumed they were unaware that neo-Confederates used such methods to educate children about their perspective on the reasons for the Civil War.

Leland's son tugged on his father's arm again, but Leland brushed him off and said, "Not now." He then looked at me and continued, "So, that paper, is that the reason why Ms. Foxharte burned our flag – because she, or you, don't agree with our interpretation of history?"

Anna interjected, "You're getting the idea."

Leland snickered. I was surprised at how easily he had dismissed the significance of the catechism. It was becoming apparent that the case against him was not as good as I had allowed myself to believe. But I had to go on; I felt that there was no other choice. I cleared my throat and said, "I have more."

Someone shouted, "I doubt it."

"Why are you rewriting the by-laws of the Association for Southern Heritage to limit membership to people whose ancestors officially served as officers and enlisted men for the Confederate States of America?"

Leland looked directly into my eyes as if he was trying to identify me. He then looked away and stood silent. Perhaps he was trying to figure out how I knew about the by-laws. When he finally looked up, he shrugged his shoulders as if he was bewildered. "New by-laws?" he said.

"Yes, new by-laws," I repeated.

"I suppose you have another piece of paper in your pocket that supports your accusation?"

I hesitated. "Well..." I was about to say "no" when Max nudged my arm. I turned and he handed me a folded piece of paper.

"New by-laws," Max whispered.

"Huh?"

"Zeb gave them to me." He gave me a wink and said, "Interesting."

Leland took a deep breath. "Well?"

I held up the paper and said, "I have a copy."

Leland said, as if he was trying to call a bluff, "Read them."

"Out loud?" I asked.

"Of course."

I started to read, and Leland interrupted me after only a few words. "What do you see in the bottom right hand corner?" he asked.

"The word 'draft' and a date," I replied.

"Written a few days ago, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yes."

"Only a draft. It has to be reviewed by an attorney to make sure that it's legal. As far as I'm concerned, that's all that matters. However," he scowled, "I sense that that's not good enough for you. I assume that you want to know if anyone is being excluded from membership based on race."

Recalling Leland's comment about how some historians refuse to recognize the official service of blacks to the Confederacy, I answered his question with a question. "Did African-Americans _officially_ serve as officers or enlisted men for the Confederate Army?"

Leland answered immediately. "Why, yes. President Jefferson Davis signed an order on March 18th, 1865 to enlist Negro men into the Confederate Army. Furthermore, there are many descendents of Confederate enlisted men and officers who are African-American but have no African-American ancestors that served for the Confederate Army. White Confederate soldiers and their descendents fathered African-American children and, unless I'm confused about genetics," he said with a smile, "that would make them eligible for membership in many heritage-based organizations."

Leland's remark about genetics drew snickers from the crowd, but when he finished his statement, they began to grumble again. I could tell that many of the reenactors were losing patience, and a sick feeling started to well up in my stomach. I realized how adept Leland was at using the facts to meet his needs – interpreting history to better serve his purpose. It was also clear that my approach was not working out the way I had expected. I looked at Junior Squires and at Leland's son, who now appeared to be more interested in me than his father. I realized that I could have mentioned what I had overheard the boy say in his father's tent, but I questioned whether or not I had really heard anything incriminating. I also understood that anything Anna or I said would be disputed by Leland and would ultimately come down to his word against ours. I knew that I had failed. I sheepishly looked at Anna and said, "Sorry."

The crowd grew loud and I discerned a variety of remarks among the rumble. One reenactor shouted, "You've had your chance _boy_ , now take your woman and get out of here." Several others added angry words of their own.

Leland's son was staring hard at me. He looked as if he had an irrepressible urge to speak. He opened his mouth; but, before he could say anything, Leland put his hand on the boy's shoulder and cut in. "What we are doing here is respectfully celebrating our heritage," he said quickly. He sighed and added. "It's unfortunate that people don't understand that. So, as I said before, please leave – leave us in peace to go on with our celebration."

Leland's suggestion sounded merciful. So I said to Anna, "We should go."

She looked at me with a blank expression. I gently took her arm and motioned for her to get into the truck, but she resisted. "This isn't right," she said to no one in particular and she pulled away from my grasp. The crowd heard her remark and they became eerily quiet, anticipating what she might say next. I could feel hundreds of eyes staring at us. I was expecting any variety of comments, but for a few long seconds no one said anything.

I looked again at Leland's son. He looked at me and broke the silence – finally able to say what was on his mind, he said, "He's a nigger lover, ain't he, Daddy?"

*****

A buzz of whispers erupted among the crowd of reenactors. Men moved away from Leland, although a small group of loyalists stood beside him. A few immediately turned and began walking back to the camps. I looked at Ben and he nodded slightly; the glare in his eyes had given way to a confused look. Reg, who had somehow made his way back to the Virginia 1202nd, and his friends began gathering in a small group.

Leland was down on one knee speaking to his son. Junior Squires was standing beside them with an angry look on his face.

Many of the reenactors were looking at Anna and me, waiting for one of us to respond. Thinking back to that day, I could have said many things, but I was too surprised by the boy's words to speak. Anna said nothing either, although she later told me that she found the boy's choice of words too offensive to be acknowledged.

Anna looked at me and said, "Let's go."

We climbed in the back of the truck and stood, holding on to the cab. My backpacking gear was scattered about. Evidently, Max had hastily gathered it together and thrown it into the back of the truck when Zeb stopped to pick him up.

The truck crept forward and Junior called out, "I know Ms. Foxharte there, but what's your name, boy?"

Max put his hand on my shoulder, and I saw him smile. Like most people, he has different smiles; this was his sarcastic smile. Max asked, "What's it to you?"

Junior jerked his head toward me and said, "So if I ever see him again, I can properly thank him." A few reenactors laughed and others nodded with angry looks on their faces.

Max cleared his throat and shouted, "Don't you know, this here's Huckleberry Finn." As the truck turned and pulled away.

Glancing across the battlefield, I said to Max, "You surprise me."

"How's that?"

"I didn't know you were so well read – I mean, Huck Finn, come on."

"What do you think I've been doing for the last eight months, watching TV all day?"

"Good ole' Max," I said, "always there when someone needs him."

"Good ole' Max," said Anna. She kissed him on the cheek.
Chapter XXV

7:00 am

The three of us stood in the bed of the truck as we pulled away from the crowd. Many of the men were walking toward the camps, while others, including Reg and his friends, were gathered in the middle of the battlefield. I looked back and recalled what Leland had said about desecrating the memory of the men that died on that field. The twinge of remorse I felt grew more intense when I remembered what Anna said about how innocent people often suffer at the hands of others possessed by a desire for power and control. I understood that those that died on that battlefield might have been the innocent ones.

My remorse was replaced with uncertainty when I recalled that Jedediah Powell, a man who had taken slaves to Philadelphia to free them, had died on that field – fighting for the Confederacy. How would Jedediah, knowing all that had happened in the nearly one hundred and fifty years that had passed since the Civil War, feel if he had been with me during the last twenty-four hours? Surely he would appreciate those who had come to celebrate his sacrifice. But what would he think of the others – those inside the circle of tents, or Leland and Junior? I would never know.

As the truck moved farther away, I spotted Ben crossing the battlefield. I was disappointed that I would not be able to talk with him. I wanted to thank him for trusting me enough to give us a chance to speak out. He walked alone with his head bent down. Finally, putting those many thoughts aside, I turned to Max, "Tell me, where did you come from?"

"I woke early this morning and noticed that you weren't in the RV. When I looked out to see where you were, I saw Anna riding that horse. Then I saw you sneaking past the camp on the opposite side. I've been watching you ever since. When Anna burned the flag I called Colonel Foxharte. He sent Zeb." Max looked at Anna and shook his head. "What made you do it?"

"It's a long story, Max," she replied.

I looked at him and said, "Betty."

He shot me a piercing look and replied, "Betty?"

"Betty?" Anna looked puzzled.

"Yes, Betty. She did it for Betty," I said to Max, "but it looks like I'll have to explain later."

As I was speaking, a large automobile rolled slowly to the edge of the battlefield. Two doors opened and Anna's parents stepped out. Zeb slowly pulled the truck up close to the Foxhartes and stopped.

"Ian, Max, nice to see you – I think," the Colonel said with a wry smile. Max and I reached down to shake his hand.

"Mrs. Foxharte," I said. Anna's mother smiled and nodded.

The Colonel spoke up. "Anna, I hear there's been a little excitement out here this morning."

"You could say that. But everything is under control."

"I'm glad to hear it." Turning to Max and me, the Colonel said, "Elizabeth and I would like you to join us for breakfast."

Breakfast sounded good. I was starving, but I remembered that the Foxhartes had guests. "With all due respect, Colonel Foxharte," I said, "You have guests; and, I think I would like to take up your offer some other time."

"Don't be silly, Ian. You and Max are always welcome."

I hesitated. "There's nothing I'd like more, but Max and I have fallen behind schedule. Perhaps when we finish our adventure, we can visit."

The Colonel smiled. "An excellent idea," he said. "We look forward to that time." He turned and looked at Anna. "So, I guess this is goodbye for a while?"

"Yes, Daddy." Anna stepped down from the truck and hugged her mother and then her father. Max and I stood there dumbfounded. She walked toward the truck, and reached out to Max for a hand. Max helped her climb back in.

"Oh," Anna said suddenly, "would you mind taking Belle home, Daddy?" We turned to look at the chestnut mare that was grazing peacefully in the battlefield.

"Not at all," replied Anna's father.

"Thanks" she said.

We waved to the Foxhartes, as Zeb pulled the truck onto the paved road. I was still confused by Anna's farewell to her parents. I suspected that I knew what she was up to, but I didn't want to be presumptuous. I said to her, "Thanks for taking us back up to the Parkway."

"Yes," she said, "it was kind of Zeb to offer to drop us off."

"Drops _us_ off?"

"Yes, us. I'm going with you – someone has to keep you out of trouble."

"Me!"

Max laughed and nodded with approval.

"What about your gear?" I asked Anna.

"It's in the cab. I put it there last night."

"Really?" I said with mild disbelief.

"Really."

We began rolling slowly along the road that would take us up to the Blue Ridge Parkway. I turned to take a final look at the spectators' camp and imagined that the ghost of Betty was lingering there. In the distance, beyond the Confederate encampment, beyond the battlefield, even beyond the Union camp, were the beautiful mountains – where I belonged.

Halfway up the access road Max started to whistle. It was a cheerful tune. The words, "You, who are on the road," instantly popped into my head. I nodded my head in time with the song and sang silently, beginning with the second verse.

"Teach your children well. Their father's hell did slowly go by. And feed them on your dreams..."
**Recommended Reading**

Andrews, W., & H. Gates., Slave Narratives, Library of America, New York, 2000.

Donald, D., Lincoln, Simon & Schuster, New York, 1995.

Foote, S., The Civil War: A Narrative History, Vintage, New York, 1986.

Horwitz, T., Confederates In the Attic: Dispatches from the Unfinished Civil War, Vintage Departures, A Division of Random House, New York, 1998.

MacPherson, J., Battle Cry of Freedom: The Civil War Era, Oxford University Press, New York, 2003.

Potter, D., The Impending Crisis: 1848 – 1861, Perennial Press, New York, 1977.

Taylor, Y., I was Born a Slave: An Anthology of Classic Slave Narratives, 1770 – 1849, Lawrence Hill & Co., New York, 1999.

Twain, M., The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, 1884.

Wells, G., Lincoln at Gettysburg: The Words that Remade America, Simon & Schuster, New York, 1992.

 Horwitz, T., Confederates In the Attic: Dispatches from the Unfinished Civil War, Vintage Departures, A Division of Random House, New York, 1998.

 Adapted from Horwitz, T., Confederates In the Attic: Dispatches from the Unfinished Civil War, Vintage Departures, A Division of Random House, New York 1998, p. 37.

 Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, Teach your children. Déjà vu, March, 1970.
