Confederates in the Attic: Dispatches from the Unfinished Civil War
When prize-winning war correspondent Tony Horwitz leaves the battlefields of Bosnia and the Middle East for a peaceful corner of the Blue Ridge Mountains, he thinks he's put war zones behind him. But awakened one morning by the crackle of musket fire, Horwitz starts filing front-line dispatches again this time from a war close to home, and to his own heart.
Propelled by his boyhood passion for the Civil War, Horwitz embarks on a search for places and people still held in thrall by America's greatest conflict. The result is an adventure into the soul of the unvanquished South, where the ghosts of the Lost Cause are resurrected through ritual and remembrance.
In Virginia, Horwitz joins a band of 'hardcore' reenactors who crash-diet to achieve the hollow-eyed look of starved Confederates; in Kentucky, he witnesses Klan rallies and calls for race war sparked by the killing of a white man who brandishes a rebel flag; at Andersonville, he finds that the prison's commander, executed as a war criminal, is now exalted as a martyr and hero; and in the book's climax, Horwitz takes a marathon trek from Antietam to Gettysburg to Appomattox in the company of Robert Lee Hodge, an eccentric pilgrim who dubs their odyssey the 'Civil Wargasm.'
Written with Horwitz's signature blend of humor, history, and hard-nosed journalism, Confederates in the Attic brings alive old battlefields and new ones 'classrooms, courts, country bars' where the past and the present collide, often in explosive ways. Poignant and picaresque, haunting and hilarious, it speaks to anyone who has ever felt drawn to the mythic South and to the dark romance of the Civil War.
All available force, even if it seems one-sided.” “We don’t want forgiveness,” Clements added. “We want people to come over to our side.” “But why polarize the story?” I asked. “Aren’t you swinging the pendulum to the opposite extreme?” “Perhaps,” Reynolds said. “But if we swing the pendulum all the way over to our side, maybe we’ll nudge the accepted view over a bit closer to where it belongs.” This was history as Middle East rug barter. The seller names his price and the buyer makes an.
Kente-cloth robe and cap. “That’s me, right there,” he said, pointing at a photograph showing a young man in coat and tie, arms linked with other marchers. “We were so young then.” Reverend Richard Boone was only twenty when he helped direct the Selma Project, as that phase of the civil rights movement was known. “We used to wear yarmulkes with our overalls,” he said. “We considered ourselves Baptist rabbis.” Later, Boone was arrested while trying to integrate Montgomery’s Empire Theater, where.
Picture from Shiloh: a tantalizing shot of Union paddle wheelers docking at Pittsburg Landing, beside the battlefield. The wide, slow Tennessee snaked behind. I could almost see a log raft floating past with a boy in a straw hat and britches tossing a catfish line over the side. Now, the real battlefield lay before me in the predawn gloom. I turned in at the park gate, switching off my headlights lest a ranger apprehend me for entering outside of official hours. Inching along in the dark, I.
Weekend.” We glimpsed the outline of a building that Rob recognized as Piper’s Farm, a bed-and-breakfast that had served as James Long-street’s headquarters during the battle. A light still glowed inside, so we slipped through the garden and into the cornfields beyond, hoping no one would hear us or decide to let fly a barrel of buckshot. By then, the moon had risen. As we hiked between the tall rows of corn the view opened up, with mountains silhouetted on all sides. The moon was bright enough.
In the family graveyard. We parked on the quiet country lane leading to the spot. Rob dug two Ambulance Corps armbands from his haversack—“to get us in the right spirit”—and we slipped them on before walking solemnly toward the burial ground, which lay at the center of a just-tilled cornfield, ringed by a small iron fence and a perimeter of gopher holes. The graveyard was unremarkable, except for one lumpy stone with an inscription that read: “Arm of Stonewall Jackson May 3 1863.” No birth or.