I make it a point to remember great days in history. On June 6 I’m generally in World War II uniform drinking a toast to those lads. On November 11 I take a minute to recall the horrendous carnage on the Western Front. On July 4 I read the Declaration of Independence.
But the Civil War is the first love, the object of many studies and the single most money-swallowing interest I have. So, I remember many days: September 17, December 13, April 7 & 8, July 1, 2, & 3, July 21, November 19 and November 30.
When I was in Pennsylvania the first days of July were the great days of remembrance and celebration. In middle Tennessee civilisation has grown up where the men clashed, erasing most of the evidence. But here and there are a sign, a monument, a small patch of ground tucked away, preserved, so future generations remember what happened here.
I live not a hundred yards from where the outer Federal defensive line crossed the Hillsboro Pike south and west of Nashville. Not more than 30 miles to the south is the site of the greatest and most hopeless assault of the entire war in Franklin, Tennessee on November 30, 1864.
Pickett’s Charge got the glory – all the eastern battles overwhelm their western counterparts in the pantheon of heroic struggle – but Franklin was bigger and more clearly doomed than even that spectacular misstep. John Bell Hood sent double the number of men as Robert E. Lee across twice the distance against earthworks that had been prepared and strengthened for nearly twelve hours.
It was the twilight of the Army of Tennessee. The soldiers knew it at the time and modern historians cannot dispute the fact.
Now the battlefield at Franklin is mostly gone.
Where Cleburne fell is a pizza shop.
Where the charge advanced is a shopping center.
The focal point of the fighting is preserved on 20 acres around the small Carter house.
The bullet-riddled buildings still stand but the soul of the place is long gone.
But I keep on remembering.
POSTSCRIPT!! – Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Little did I know that the anniversary this year fell on the same day of the week as the battle 141 years ago. It’s an eerie thing to be stuck in traffic and suddenly see a Confederate column marching up the Columbia Pike toward the Federal position at the exact time, in the exact spot, on the exact date and the same day of the week as those poor, deluded fellows did so many years ago.
On a brighter note, the Pizza Hut that stood more or less where the Carter cotton gin stood was knocked down today amongst some fanfare. Now, if we could only flatten the damned Domino’s we’ll have begun to win the fight against our silly culture overtaking our memories.
And lastly – and you’ll have to excuse the lack of skill, it was damned dark – a shot of the Mississippi monument from the McGavock Cemetery. Forty two Mississippians lie buried near that spot beneath the sod of Middle Tennessee. It seemed fitting to pay tribute to brave, if misguided lads, on their great anniversary. They may not have followed their duty but they did what was required of them.
