The Appalachian Chronicles: Shades of Gray

by Seneca Fox

  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.