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Battle of Aiken

Mar 10, 2009 | Comment(s) 0

Anyone who says Dixie is dead has never been to Aiken, South Carolina. For one weekend every year, thousands of proud Confederate patriots gather in Aiken to celebrate their ancestors’ final victory in the War Between the States, or The War of Northern Aggression, or the Civil War for y’all Yanks out there. For it was here in the fields of the Upcountry that Sherman’s destructive march came to a sudden halt, and the town of Aiken was saved.

Chances are your barber, or your mechanic, or your bartender is one of these guys who likes camping in the freezing February night and playing dress up all weekend. But that was the best part.  As an outsider, and someone who quickly dropped out of Boy Scouts, it all seemed kind of crazy. But these were regular guys, people we see every day. Their patriotism, dare I say it, touched me. After an hour or so, I couldn’t help but feel incredibly proud to have grown up in Dixie.

Walking through those camps was like walking through a rift in time and space. A woman explains candle making while her husband pours himself a cup from his Mr. Coffee machine. Regiments post recruitment signs outside their camps, leave your future toys at the door. One man calls playing the Union side “Cross-dressing.”

A voice comes over the loudspeaker inviting everyone to the front, for the ceremony’s beginning. The voice claims to be one General Robert E. Lee.  Another claims to be General Grant. As I make my way to the battlefield and see these icons atop a scissor lift platform, I would never have doubted their identities. They introduce the main players in the battle, colonel and captain so-and-so. The Confederate Chaplain, probably Presbyterian, says a prayer.  And then the boys go to war.

The Confederates begin by hiding behind fallen trees, spread all over the middle of the field. But as Sherman’s men pour through the trees, the graycoats retreat back to their artillery for a better defensive position. BOOM! The artillery on both sides begin their exchange. The air fills with white smoke and the rank smell of sulfur. Then it all transforms into some sort of historical jazz session.  A group of cavalry rides here, some die. This line advances, a few more fall. One man checks his cell phone for texts as he dies. The whole battle plays out within an hour or so, treading a fine line between order and chaos. Once the Union forces have been sufficiently stifled, and Sherman’s wrath kept at bay another day, these brave (re-en)actors stand for a final bow and photos. Great job, Johnny Reb. You played well with others this day.

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