The Course of History
They come from every one of the fifty states and represent nearly every walk of life. They meet to share a common bond: a keen interest in the events and battles of the American Civil War. Traveling by automobile, bus, train or airplane, they gather together in locations such as Fredericksburg, Gettysburg, Antietam, Chancellorsville and Manassas. Some are lawyers, teachers, construction workers or former soldiers while others are mechanics, plumbers, truck drivers or accountants.
Regardless of occupation, age, race—and in some cases even gender—for three glorious days they will put aside their careers, turn their backs on their own time and don the uniforms of the Confederate and Union Armies. On the hallowed ground of the Gettysburg National Military Park, they will march, drill and reenact the highlights of the unforgettable battle that occurred on the Pennsylvania farmland in July 1863.
Depending on the level of authenticity they observe, reenactors fall into three general categories. "Farbs" are the least historically authentic of these soldiers. They might be seen on a mock battlefield wearing jeans or a pair of Reeboks as part of their uniform. Meanwhile, "progressives," the hard-core authentics, become immersed in the time period and location of the battle and remain in character even when unobserved by their audience. The largest of the three groups, however, are the "mainstream" reenactors. These men, and sometimes women, make every effort to remain authentic while in front of an audience but may act out of character when they are unobserved.
Dr. Russell Keaton, a general practitioner from Newburyport, Massachusetts, who falls into the third category of reenactors, became fascinated with the Civil War when he first saw Gone with the Wind at age nine. Although he had been too young to fully comprehend the Scarlett-Ashley-Rhett love triangle, the scene where the wounded and dying soldiers lay on the ground and railroad tracks outside the Atlanta train station left a lasting impression on his fertile young mind.
Glen Ackroyd, an American history professor at the University of Pennsylvania, had met Dr. Keaton several years earlier at a reenactment of the battle of Cold Harbor. After that initial meeting, the two men routinely encountered one another at subsequent reenactments and soon became good friends.
"Hey, Doc," Glen called cheerfully when he saw Russell getting out of his rental car.
"Well, if it isn't the absent-minded professor," Russell replied jovially.
"I missed you at Antietam last month."
"I had to attend a wedding in Boston. Angela's younger sister got married, and she wanted Angela to be the matron of honor."
Glen helped the doctor carry his duffel bags to a line of pitched tents, one of which was to be their home for the next three days.
"Ah, it's great to be back here!" Russell exclaimed, looking out over the verdant Pennsylvania countryside. "Gettysburg: the Mecca of the Civil War enthusiast."
"Unless you're from south of the Mason-Dixon Line, that is," Glen laughed.
"Did you find out what's on the agenda for us?"
"We got the prize this time, buddy: Pickett's division."
"You're kidding! I've always wanted to make that charge," Russell said excitedly, like a child who was about to visit Disneyland.
"Me, too. Of course, charging up Cemetery Ridge in this hot, humid weather, especially wearing a uniform and lugging a rifle and ammo, could prove to be a little enervating."
"Look at the bright side, professor. Unlike most of the men in the real Pickett's division, we'll make it back down alive."
* * *
Russell and Glen, both exhausted and perspiring heavily after several hours of drilling, parading and participating in scaled-down reenactments of the fighting at the Peach Orchard and Culp's Hill, sat on the rocks at Devil's Den, eating their unappetizing evening rations.
"I don't know about you, Doc, but I'd rather have walked over to Steinwehr Avenue and eaten at Pickett's All You Can Eat Buffet."
"We're supposed to eat what the Confederate troops ate. Authenticity is the key to a good reenactment, even for mainstream reenactors like you and me."
"Just don't expect me to take a Minie ball in the leg. There is a limit to how far even a dedicated history professor and confirmed Civil War buff will go."
"It's getting cooler out. I think I'll take a walk," Russell announced. "Care to join me, professor?"
"Can we go past McDonald's?" asked Glen, who, in the absence of a tempting buffet, would be willing to settle for a double quarter-pounder with cheese and some fries.
"I thought I'd take Taneytown Road and go up past the cemetery, but we can walk down Steinwehr and stop at McDonald's on the way back."
As they strolled past Little Round Top and over Cemetery Ridge, Russell became more reflective.
"Do you ever wonder why an educated and civilized man leaves his family and the comfort of his home and travels for hours to put on a uniform and play soldier? Just think about it for a minute. I'm a doctor and you're a historian. We know better than most the terrible loss and suffering that occurred on this spot in 1863, yet here we are recreating skirmishes where so many men lost their lives."
"Most people are fascinated by death and disaster," Glen theorized, "from the driver who rubbernecks at the scene of a bad car crash to the people who read true crime books. I see it at the university all the time. When I give a lecture on Kennedy's role in the Civil Rights movement, the Cuban Missile Crisis or the Bay of Pigs scandal, half the students doodle on their notepads or look out the windows, but the day I discuss the assassination they all follow my words with rapt attention."
"What do they do when you discuss the Warren Commission and the single bullet theory?"
"Just what you and I would do: laugh."
The cool breeze they'd felt while sitting in Devil's Den grew steadily stronger, and the sky became darker, much too dark for a summer early evening.
"I think we're in for some rain. It looks like the Weather Channel is wrong again," Russell remarked. "Just how badly do you want that hamburger?"
Before Glen could respond, a bolt of lightning split the sky, followed by the ominous growl of thunder. Within seconds of its final echo, the rain started to fall.
"Let's run to the visitor center until this passes over," Glen suggested, already sprinting over the freshly mowed green lawn.
Another bolt of lightning struck, its brightness momentarily blinding the two men. The doctor, who had been running through the downpour with his head down, suddenly looked up.
"Professor, do you see what I see?" Russell asked with amazement.
"Yeah, Doc," Glen replied nervously, "absolutely nothing."
The visitor center, the national cemetery, the Cyclorama Battle Theater and dozens of commemorative monuments had all disappeared. Gone, too, were Taneytown Road and Steinwehr Avenue along with the motels, restaurants, museums and gift shops located on those busy thoroughfares. Glen and Russell found themselves alone on a dirt road with the sun shining brightly overhead as though it were near the noon hour.
They heard a voice call out from the cover of a group of trees to their right.
"Halt or I'll fire!"
A man in a tattered gray uniform from Lee's army walked into the clearing, his rifle aimed at the two friends.
"Who are you and what company are you with?" the man demanded to know in his thick Southern drawl.
Glen laughed; this fellow was taking authenticity to a new level.
"We're in Pickett's division," he replied. "We were on our way to McDonald's. I hate to charge on an empty stomach."
"I asked you what company you're with."
Obviously, the man had no sense of humor.
"I'm Dr. Russell Keaton from Massachusetts, and this is Professor Glen Ackroyd of the University of Pennsylvania. We came to Gettysburg to take part in the battle reenactment."
The man was immediately suspicious of anyone from Massachusetts wearing a Confederate uniform.
"I'm taking you back to camp," he growled. "You two walk ahead and don't make any sudden moves. I'll have my rifle aimed at your backs the whole time."
"What the hell is going on?" Glen complained. "I can take a joke as well as the next guy, but I just don't get the punch line here."
"Shut up and walk!"
The man accentuated his order with a hard shove to Glen's back.
"Hey, watch ...."
Glen started to object, but Russell cautioned his friend to remain silent.
"I don't think we should argue with a man carrying a loaded gun."
The look on Russell's face warned the professor not to anger their captor. Whatever might be going on, it was obviously no joke.
The three men walked almost two miles before reaching the encampment.
"There's something very wrong here, Doc," Glen whispered. "Just look at this place."
It was unlike any camp they'd ever constructed on the Civil War's famed battlefields, and the men they saw were clearly no reenactors. Many were malnourished, sick or wounded. All of them were unwashed and unshaven, dressed in uniforms torn and stained with blood from real battles.
"Where the hell are we?" Russell muttered.
It was Glen, the scholar, who first perceived their predicament.
"Not where, Doc, but when."
It was not a question of what place they were in so much as what time they were in. Since that second bolt of lightning had struck, Glen had neither seen nor heard any sign of the marvels of modern man: no cars, airplanes, telephone poles, cellular towers, fast-food restaurants or strip malls.
A young Confederate lieutenant came out of the mess tent to speak to Glen and Russell. He apprehensively eyed the two uniforms that showed little sign of wear.
"Empty your pockets," he ordered brusquely.
The lieutenant stared in amazement at the driver's licenses, credit cards and photographs in the men's wallets, and he closely examined the currency he found in the billfolds.
"It's Lincoln," he said looking at a five-dollar bill.
Then he picked up the coins and noticed the dates: 1987, 1993 and 2000.
"Bartlett," the lieutenant called to one of his men. "I'm taking these two to see the general. You come along with a group of guards and keep an eye on them. They may try to escape."
* * *
Russell and Glen waited outside with the guards while Lt. Morgan went into the general's tent. When Morgan eventually ordered the two of them inside, they were confronted with positive proof of their journey back in time: the tired-looking man sitting behind a makeshift desk was none other than Lieutenant General James Longstreet, commander of the First Corps of the Army of Northern Virginia.
"My lieutenant claims that you two men are Federal spies," Longstreet announced.
"I assure you, sir, we're not spies," Russell stated emphatically.
"You certainly don't look like soldiers. Who are you and what are you doing in those uniforms?"
Glen spoke up before Russell could answer.
"We're actors, General. These uniforms are our costumes. We travel through the South acting out Confederate victories for both the troops and the folks back home. We've found it does a lot to improve morale, sir."
"What about this money they found on you? And these things?"
Longstreet held up their driver's licenses and credit cards.
"They appear to be some form of official documents. According to this one, you are from Massachusetts and you were born in November 1954."
"That's correct, sir," Russell admitted.
"Those papers are only meant as a joke, though," Glen lied. "Courtesy of a printer in Charleston with a strange sense of humor."
Longstreet ignored the professor and stared into the doctor's face, waiting for him to explain.
"I was born on November 1, 1954. I'm a medical doctor with a practice in Newburyport, Massachusetts. Those photographs are of my wife, Angela, and our sons, Tom and Robert. This morning, I left Boston and traveled to Gettysburg ...."
Lt. Morgan spoke up, "That's impossible! Even the fastest train couldn't travel from Boston to Pennsylvania in one day."
"In your time it was impossible but not in mine."
"Exactly when is your time, Doctor?" Longstreet asked.
"I live in the year 2000."
Lt. Morgan scoffed at the idea and demanded that Russell stop wasting their time and confess the truth. Longstreet remained silent, however.
"If you are from the future," he finally asked, "what are you doing in those uniforms? Is this damned, bloody war to continue for another hundred and thirty-five years?"
"No. My friend here was somewhat correct when he said that we are actors. There are men in our time who have a great historical interest in this war. We meet on former battlefields, wearing the uniforms of both the North and South, and we act out important engagements in front of large crowds of spectators."
"Then what were you doing in Gettysburg?"
"Russ!"
Morgan, Keaton and Longstreet were surprised by the urgency in Glen's voice.
"I think you've already explained who and what we are," the professor said. "You don't want to take up the general's valuable time with a lot of boring details about a bunch of grown men playing soldiers."
"I beg to differ, sir," the general argued. "I want to hear all about Dr. Keaton's activities in Gettysburg."
Longstreet then turned back to Russell.
"If what you've told me is true, you must know the outcome of this war."
"I do," Russell said sadly.
"For God's sake, Russell, don't say anymore," Glen pleaded. "Don't you realize the danger? If you tell him what's going to happen in his immediate future, it could have a disastrous impact upon our own time."
"Why be so pessimistic, Glen? We might change history for the better. By telling him what we know, we might be able to save thousands of lives."
"It might just as easily cause thousands of deaths. The events of this war and of the next hundred and thirty-five years, however tragic some may have been, gave birth to what we are in the year 2000. We can't take the risk of altering the course of history."
Longstreet angrily slammed his fist on the desk.
"I'm not interested in hearing your theories and speculations. Frankly, I don't give a damn about what happens in the year 2000. My only concern is for my men and what may be ahead of them. Now I demand you tell me what you were doing in Gettysburg."
Russell looked at Glen, his eyes apologizing for what he was about to do.
"I'm a doctor. I swore an oath to save lives."
Glen shook his head in weary resignation as Russell turned back to Longstreet.
"On July first, second and third, Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia will fight General George Meade and the Army of the Potomac in Gettysburg."
"George Meade?" the general echoed with skepticism. "Joe Hooker commands the Army of the Potomac."
"Hooker resigned on June 28, and Lincoln appointed Meade to take command."
Longstreet considered the plausibility of this information. He knew firsthand that Hooker had been indecisive at Chancellorsville and that Lincoln wanted a general who would take the offensive.
"Go on."
"It will be the bloodiest battle ever fought on American soil. There will be close to fifty thousand casualties. After two days of heavy fighting, Lee will make a daring move. George Pickett will lead a valiant charge across a mile of open field straight into enemy fire, but he will be repulsed by the Union troops who hold the high ground."
"Will it be the end of the war?"
"No. But it will mark the turning point for the South. Lee will retreat to Virginia and never attempt another invasion of the North. On July 4, Vicksburg will surrender to General Ulysses S. Grant. The North will thus gain control of the Mississippi River, and the Confederacy will be split in two. In 1864, President Lincoln will put Grant in charge of all Union forces. Grant will invade Virginia and capture Richmond in 1865. General William Sherman will capture Atlanta and march toward Savannah, leaving destruction in his wake. Finally, on April 9, 1865, General Lee will surrender to Grant at Appomattox Court House in Virginia."
Lt. Morgan, his rebel pride unable to admit even the remotest possibility of defeat, bellowed at Russell, "Why, you goddamned Yankee spy! How dare you stand there and suggest that Bobby Lee will surrender and that the South will be defeated? We whupped you blue bellies at Bull Run, Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, and we'll whup you in Pennsylvania. General Lee won't quit until he's sent that no-good abolitionist in the White House back to Illinois where he belongs!"
"That will be enough, Morgan. You may return to your duties now," Longstreet said firmly. He then turned to Glen and announced, "One of my men will accompany you to the mess tent. You can have something to eat while your friend and I have a talk with General Lee."
For the first time in his life, however, Glen Ackroyd wasn't hungry.
* * *
Russell repeated his story in front of Robert E. Lee, one of the greatest military commanders in history. The Southern general listened patiently to everything the doctor said, not showing any emotion even when Russell told him about Appomattox and the end of the Confederacy.
"The Old South will fade into history, but a new South will be born. The United States will grow; our country will extend from the Atlantic to the Pacific and will include Alaska and Hawaii, as well. A century from now, America will be one of the most powerful nations in the world. We will send men and women into outer space. In fact, an American named Neil Armstrong will be the first man to walk on the surface of the moon."
"Thank you, Dr. Keaton," Lee said quietly. He then instructed two of his men, "You may show the good doctor out now."
After Russell was gone, Lee went to examine his war-torn map of Pennsylvania.
"General Longstreet, I do believe our enemy hopes to keep us away from Gettysburg with this preposterous story. What do you think is so important about this little Pennsylvania town?"
"General, I don't think this is a ruse. I know the doctor's story is hard to believe, but his passion and conviction are real. I have the distinct feeling that he is telling us the truth."
* * *
Russell joined his friend under guard in the mess tent.
"You don't have to worry about the course of history, Glen," the New England doctor said. "I don't think Lee believed me. In fact, he looked at me as though I were a raving lunatic about to foam at the mouth."
"I wonder what they'll do with us now," the professor said.
"If we don't get back to our own time soon, they will probably send you to a military prison and drag me off to an asylum."
"Uh oh! Here they come," Glen whispered when he spied a group of soldiers headed their way.
"General Longstreet wants to see you, Doctor," a young private announced and then escorted Russell back to Longstreet's tent.
"General Lee does not believe your story. He thinks you and your friend were sent by the Federal Army to keep us away from Gettysburg. He suspects there is a good reason behind it."
"But you believe me, don't you, General?"
"Yes. This morning we were headed for Carlisle to join forces with General Ewell. Then we were to continue on to Harrisburg. But now Lee has ordered us to reverse our direction: we're going to march to Gettysburg."
The two men were silent for some time, both troubled by their own thoughts.
"Dr. Keaton, I have a personal question to ask, and I'd like a truthful answer. Will I survive the battle at Gettysburg?"
"Both the battle and the war, General Longstreet. When this is all over, you'll take part in building that new government I spoke of, and you'll live to a ripe old age."
Longstreet smiled and extended his hand to Russell.
"Thank you. I must confess to you I came to the conclusion some time ago that the South would eventually be defeated. Yet I was determined to fight to the end nonetheless. Now, I only wish we could avoid another two years of senseless bloodshed. I pray this great country you spoke of is worth the sacrifice of so many brave men."
The sky suddenly darkened, and the winds began to blow.
"This is the same type of storm that preceded my journey back to 1863," Russell observed. "Maybe it's time for Glen and me to go back to our own century. May I go to my friend?"
Lee had wanted them kept under guard, to be available for further questioning, if necessary, but Longstreet could see no point in keeping these two men prisoners of time.
"Yes, you're free to go," he said, countermanding Lee's order. "And good luck to you both."
"Thank you, General. I'd just like to say that it's been an honor meeting you, sir. Do you have any other questions before I go?" Russell asked as the two men shook hands.
"As a matter of fact, I do. Just how did you get from Boston to Pennsylvania in less than a day?"
"I flew."
Russell laughed at the dumbfounded look on Longstreet's face.
"Glen?" Russell shouted for his friend over the howling wind.
"I'm over here!"
"I think the storm is a signal that we're going home."
"I hope so. As much as I love history, I don't relish the idea of becoming a permanent part of it."
Lightning ripped across the sky, and the thunder sounded like cannon fire.
"I'm scared, Russ. What if we're stuck here? We'll never see our families again."
The rain came down like sleet.
"Maybe we should run for cover, Doc."
"I don't think that's necessary."
Russell held his breath, waiting for the next flash of lightning. Before it struck and temporarily blinded him, he saw General Longstreet wave goodbye from the opening of his tent.
* * *
People driving down Taneytown Road stared at the two grown men in Confederate uniforms jumping up and down in the pouring rain, laughing and hugging each other on the lawn in front of the visitor center.
"We're back!" shouted Glen, who actually bent down and kissed the ground of the former battlefield. "Look at all that traffic. What a beautiful sight!"
The storm was letting up, and the sun began to peek through the quickly retreating rain clouds.
"Hey, professor," Russell said, slapping his friend on the back, "why don't we walk down to McDonald's, and I'll treat you to a quarter-pounder?"
"Make it a double quarter-pounder with cheese and supersize it and you've got a deal."
Russell shook his head and laughed, "As a doctor and a friend, I've got to ask you: don't you ever worry about your cholesterol level?"
"Sadly, I adhere to the same philosophy as Scarlett O'Hara: 'I'll go crazy if I think about it today; I'll think about it tomorrow.'"
* * *
Glen bit into his long-awaited hamburger while Russell opened the plastic container of his Cobb salad. But suddenly the doctor couldn't eat. His throat had tightened, and unshed tears stung his eyes.
"What's wrong?"
Russell tried to swallow the lump in his throat before speaking.
"Do you know what Longstreet told me? He said Lee was headed north to Harrisburg. It was only after he had talked to me that he decided to go east towards Gettysburg. I honestly thought I might help end the war and thus prevent the death of thousands of men. Do you think that in trying to stop the bloodshed I actually became the cause of it?"
"I see two possible explanations. One is that history cannot be changed, regardless of how we may interfere. In that case, if you hadn't been there, something else would have sent Lee to Gettysburg. History books offer different theories as to why his army marched on Pennsylvania. Some historians think Longstreet's scout, Harrison, passed on information that influenced Lee's decision. Others believe Lee didn't want to spread his army so thin in enemy territory. After all, Gordon and his troops were in York, Ewell was in Carlisle, Imboden's cavalry was in Hanover and nobody knew where Jeb Stuart was. If Lee had continued on to Harrisburg, he would have endangered his rear."
"And the other one?" Russell asked after Glen had finally finished his quarter-pounder.
"Other what?"
"You said you had two possible explanations. What is the second one?"
"Maybe what happened today was no freak occurrence, no atmospheric anomaly. Maybe time isn't a one-way street like we assume. Perhaps there are intersections and overpasses where one time overlaps another."
"I don't follow you."
"Your being taken before Longstreet and Lee might not have been a deviation from the actual events of 1863. You could have been as much a part of the course of history as Stonewall Jackson, General Sherman and Abraham Lincoln. As I said, these are only possible explanations, theories without proof, a history professor's educated guesses. There is one thing I'm sure of, though: you're not responsible for anyone's death. It was a long, bloody war, and almost 500,000 men died on both sides. But where do we lay the blame? Who can we point the finger at and say, 'He's the one who is responsible'? Abraham Lincoln? Jefferson Davis? The slave owners? The abolitionists? And what about the two world wars or the conflicts in Korea and Vietnam? Who gets the blame for them? It takes more than a handful of evil men to wage war. Hordes of people with good intentions get caught up in political propaganda. They wave their flags and march off to battle singing hymns and chanting patriotic slogans. It's only after they've had their fill of death and destruction and have finally seen through all the political bullshit, that they hold out the olive branch and talk peace."
Russell watched silently as Glen attacked his French fries. Then, with the weight of guilt gone from his shoulders, Dr. Keaton picked up his plastic fork and started eating his salad.
"You know what, professor?"
"What's that, Doc?"
"You've sure got a way with words. Someday I'm going to pay a surprise visit to your classroom. I'd love to hear your lecture on the Kennedy assassination."
"Nah, it's the one on the Warren Commission you don't want to miss. That's the one that leaves them rolling in the aisles."
In 2011, more than ten years after I wrote this story, I began researching my family tree. I was born and raised in New Jersey, and learned to my surprise that one of my ancestors was Dirck Stoffelsen Langstraat (spelling of surname varies). Langstraat immigrated to New Amsterdam (later New York) from the Netherlands in the 1600s. His descendents settled in New Jersey, where their name was Anglicized to Longstreet. One of them was General James Longstreet (who moved to the South with his parents when he was a child). I was amazed to learn that a Confederate general--the same one I featured in one of my stories--was, in fact, a distant cousin! - M. Haisan
Salem likes to go to Gettysburg and join the reenactors at Devil's Den. Lucky for him they don't use him for target practice.
