I grew up during the Civil Rights Movement, which I always understood to be a continuation of the Civil War. It wasn’t until I visited Gettysburg this past April, however, that I learned about the actual warfare.
We started early, ducking out of our B&B before breakfast to climb the tower on top of nearby Culp’s Hill to gain a clear view.
Back to the inn for a good feed, and then out to the battlefield, which has been well preserved.
Monuments mark every skirmish of the battle, down to the number of officers and men killed, wounded and missing. After a few hours of reading these, I’m numbed by the number of casualties, and concentrate instead on the landscape before me. I’m undecided if the land is hallowed or haunted – or both.
I start seeing stone outcroppings strategically, and wonder how many men used each one for cover while reloading their rifles, or how many wounded sheltered in its shadow, hoping for medical attention or death, whichever would give more certain relief.
About mid-day, we rest at the Visitor’s Center, and see the spectacular panorama detailing the three-day battle.
I’ve visited a few World War Two battle sites in Europe, and I’ve been to Waterloo, where Napoleon was defeated in 1815, but I’ve never before been witness to a battle that was so thoroughly documented that it feels intimate, as if I were personally present.
We return to the battlefield in what is now high afternoon heat. I don’t complain, though, because I’m wearing twenty-first century clothing made from microfibers that keep me cool and highly engineered, comfortable, shoes.
I think of the men – boys, really – in their woolen uniforms, carrying rifle and ammunition, bedroll, some food, cooking utensils and a flask for water – an estimated twenty pounds of gear, gear they’ve been carrying since they left home – a thousand miles and months distant. Most of them have been on the march since the seasonal renewal of warfare in spring.
We walk the ridge where Pickett’s Charge took place. By now, I’m well versed in the lines of battle. By now, I know the difference between a brass Napoleon and breach-loading cannon as well as the destructive virtues of exploding shells, solid shot, grape shot and canister shot. What I don’t know is whether working a big gun was more or less dangerous than carrying a muzzle-loading rifle with a long, murderous, bayonet.
By the end of that day, I was not so much tired as emotionally drained. So when I heard that a recent Supreme Court decision struck down a key component of the Voting Rights Act, I thought of all those battlefield dead – and their mothers, their widows and their children. What a terrible irony it would be if the Voting Rights Act decision signals a retreat from the principle of equality for which so many fought – in the very year that we observe the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of their sacrifice.
