A Day of Death

President Lincoln meets with Gen. McClellan on the battlefield at Antietam to order a final push against the Rebels. McClellan ignored his commander in chief.


Tuesday morning broke for us, but bleakly. Mist hung in the hollows on the northern edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains, up in the panhandle of Maryland. The cutting breeze made us wrap an extra layer of warm clothing around us as we ventured out onto the battlefield at Antietam.

It provided a fitting sense of chill at this the site of the ultimate day of death on the battlefield in all of our history.

Twenty-three thousand men died or were wounded on that one day, Sept. 17, 1862. It did not matter whether they were from the North – the Federals – or the South – the Rebels. They came together on that fateful day and faced thousands of cannon balls, muskets and rifles. And they fell in the Cornfield, on Bloody Lane, at the Middle Bridge that crossed Antietam Creek which ultimately joins the Potomac River.

Gen. Robert E. Lee brought his southern troops north, because he'd been winning the war to that point. He wanted to hurt the North and perhaps get the recognition of the European countries – particularly Britain – that the South was a separate country.

Gen. George B. McClellan believed Lee had many more troops in the area that his Union forces. He was wrong. He was a timid man, a good planner, loved by his men, but a lousy leader.

He sat in an overstuffed arm chair, overlooking the battlefield. The ladies and gentlemen of Washington had driven out to watch this decisive battle and they tittered and swooned at being so close to the star of the show. McClellan loved the adulation and played to the crowd while his men fell, and fell, and fell.

More than 10,000 men fell in the first three and a half hours after dawn broke on Sept. 17. By dusk, the battle was over. It was effectively a draw. The sounds of crying and groaning and begging calls for water could be heard all through the night.

The germ theory of infection was unknown back then. Surgeons operated on wounded soldiers in unsanitary conditions with unsterilized instruments. An amputee had a 65 percent chance of surviving surgery - but a 90 percent chance of dying from infection.

Jo and I drove and walked the fields, passing the 96 monuments that have been placed where the men fought and died. Only one monument honors soldiers who fought for both the North and the South. This was erected by the State of Maryland – a border state – because it had men who served on both sides.

It was chilling and sobering to linger along the split-rail fences and feel the presence of the spirits of so many souls. Sharpsburg, MD, would be a difficult town to live even now, I think. There is a sense of endless loss in the place.

We stopped in at a little tavern for lunch but there was no energy in the place. We returned to the field and spent an outstanding half hour with a park ranger who talked us through the strategy of Gen. Lee. He explained the power of the terrain, the way Lee moved his troops, the lack of coordination of the Federals as they came up the hill and were sliced in half by the cannon.

He also told us that five days after the battle, President Lincoln issued his Preliminary Emancipation Proclamation. The document became final on Jan. 1, 1863, and gave the war a twofold purpose – reuniting the country and freedom of four million slaves.

Lincoln came here to the battlefield and to the many hospitals that were set up in an attempt to save the wounded. He spoke with men of the South as well as Northern soldiers. The war would continue for another two-plus years because of the ineptness of McClellan's lack of follow-through on that day in 1862. Lincoln replaced him but the blood continued to flow on both sides so that, by the end of the war, 600,000 men had been killed or wounded.

Spinning Across New York

Friend Jody Hyman spins with her drop spindle at the Rhinebeck, NY, Wool Fest.

Here's the scene: Dutchess County Fairgrounds in Rhinebeck, New York. Hundreds, nay, thousands of crunchy-looking women in their knitted hats and hand-warmers and shawls and knitted or woven dresses. This is the Sheep and Wool Festival. Surely, men were tagging along. There were even a few men spinning and weaving. But this was clearly a woman’s event.
The women of all ages were there to buy yarn, or fleece, or roving (the cleaned and washed wool). They were there to buy the contraptions that make spinning and weaving and knitting and crocheting easier.
We watched a contest of drop spindle spinners alongside a spinning wheel contest. The object was to spin the longest yarn in 15 minutes. Jo's friend Jody Hyman, a prodigious spinner and basket maker who is a master of the drop spindle, took second place. The drop spindle is the world's simplest tool. It looks like a top that you would spin on a table. But in Jody's hands it came alive as she hanked on a piece of raw wool and set it a-spinning. She produced 15 yards of yarn in 15 minutes. A younger woman pulled out the stops and produced a fraction more yardage in that time.
On the more mechanized section, a buxom lady sat beside her homemade spinning machine and fairly made it hum. It had been constructed of PVC pipe and it vibrated and bucked as she spun her heart out. When her son would put his hand on the machine to reduce the vibration, she would mutter, “Keep tyer hands off!” Across from her was a male spinner with a handsome cherry wood spinning wheel who seemed to be making awesome yardage. And closer to me was a German woman who constantly complained of the low-quality fleece she was trying to spin. No matter. The PVC lady won and the German lady took fourth place.
Dutchess County is in the Taconic range of high hills. They are at their absolute peak in terms of color as the sugar maples take on the scarlet and gold of the last breath of summer. We took up residence in a New York State Park down the road from the festival. We were ensconced in a wooded glade, peaceful beyond belief. But cool... quite cool. So we ran our propane heater in the evening before retreating under our down comforter.
Now, on Sunday, we begin our trek south.

Draco Malfoy is Dead

John carries the captured Draco Malfoy out of the hen house while Cassy recoils from the bird's evil eye.
I bring you great news. Draco Malfoy, the rooster ruling the hen house at grand-daughter Trisha's place in Kent, Connecticut, is dead.

Malfoy (named after one of the evil characters in the Harry Potter series of books) was a bit of a wicked bastard. He pecked me at the back of my knees when I went into the hen house to pick up the daily dozen eggs. He chased Trisha and terrorized her to the point she was unwilling to do the daily chores in the hen house. But his days were numbered when a farmer up the road said he was planning to slaughter 100 chickens and would be happy to include Malfoy in the batch.

Our son in law, John, entered the hen house at dusk on Sunday. He had learned the art of grabbing and controlling the rooster: you lay him on his back and he immediately quietens. He slid him into a borrowed cage and Malfoy, when released, set up an awesome squawk while jabbing his beak through the cage. But it was too late. Now Malfoy's hours were numbered.

The farmer asked Lynn if she wanted the dressed rooster back for dinner. She wasn't that keen. But when the farmer said it would cost $5 either way, she decided she'd bring home the carcass. We ate Malfoy but found him to be a skinny bird... no breast meat to speak of, and dark meat that was almost black. But he tasted pretty good.

2010 Journey

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