Carriage Trails

We met by the horses. Every other summer day it seemed, we met by the horses. It was a shorter walk for me, really. And sometimes I felt bad. But she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, sometimes she would meet me there, invigorated and smiling from a good run. On this particular day, we brought our bikes, and as we had nothing else planned, a picnic.

I still remember the little gym sack we brought, though its contents have long since escaped my mind. We rode over to her house, filled it up, and carried it back to the old carriage trails by the meeting spot. She always told me they were once the main roads people used to take their horse and buggies on before the new ones were paved.

New England, once the logging and ship-building center of the country, all but decimated its forests in the 19th century, and pictures from the time look more like some place in the mid-west, with just as many trees and infinitely more hills. Now the land is covered in young, dense forest; the old roads are nothing more than overgrown trails fit only for horses, bikes, and the occasional four-wheeler.

We used these trails to their full advantage, especially on days like this. Not only did they cut across to the places we wanted to go, but to say they were the scenic route would be a vast understatement. They were narrow and rocky, often spotted with mud and tree roots, but they were lined with old stone walls, and I imagined those farmers centuries ago, marking their land by clearing the rocky soil and placing them up against the well-worn main road. Above us were the trees. Stretching up and bending over us, they created a thick green canopy, and the sun would shine down through the leaves, glistening on the puddles and rocks below.

Rachel, like every other day, was ahead of me. I struggled to ride flat across the bumpy dirt trail, much less glide with her speed up the steep inclines. There is always a certain joy and energy surrounding her, and today was no exception. I remember she said, “Rachel, you know it’s not normal, to live so close to your best friend and ride carriage trails to the river.”

Before long the trail met with paved road. Speeding down the hills and over the bridge, we raced toward the edge of the road where the guardrail ended and wild flowers grew in the tall grass. We left our bikes and carried our little pack of goodies to the water’s edge. There was a faint path along the river, and sometimes we would walk up and down it, looking for frogs or fish in the clear, iron-colored water. This time, we headed for under the bridge. The river ran only a few inches deep here in the summer, and a narrow bank was created where smooth rocks stuck out of the mud.

We sat and talked about our day, throwing off our shoes and dipping our feet in the cold water as we ate. We talked about who we would marry, where we would go and what things we would do and see, all the while, knowing we could come back tomorrow, riding the trails among the trees to the river beneath the bridge.  

Cities

Growing up, we never went to cities. My dad always preferred the great outdoors to anything skyscrapers and pavement could offer. We lived only an hour from the city, yet summer days were spent driving two hours north to the mountains and lakes.

Our first time in Boston together wasn’t until I was in college. The whole city was buzzing with life as new mixed with old – an 18th century church reflected in a tower of glass and cars whizzed across the Zakim Bridge, its pillars modeling the old Bunker Hill Monument in the distance. Each building, each cobblestone street, reflected hundreds of years of human existence.

They told the stories of the people who walked beneath those city lights, first lamps and kerosene and then electric. As I walked in their footsteps, I traced the lives of great men and notorious criminals, from Paul Revere to Charles Ponzi, and I realized the world might just be a little bit bigger than me.

I know there are reasons my dad never took us to the city. After all, I’ll never forget swimming in the cool clear water of the northern lakes or camping in the mountains and hiking to the scenic peaks. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. But there’s nothing quite like the city. For cities are where the people are. And it’s people who make history.

Sure, there are negatives. When there are people involved, there are always negatives. That’s human drama. That makes life interesting.

As rejuvenating as it is to stroll along a mountain stream, all you’ll get is the mountain stream. Come back the next day and it will still be flowing along the same old path beneath the same old trees. Unless people come. They might bring their plastic bags and soda cans, but they’ll also tie a rope to a tree and swing into the water where the river runs deep and splash each other until their hands turn red. They’ll make memories. They’ll give the stream something to flow for.

Recently, I took a friend home for spring break. As we walked along the freedom trail, a literal red brick path tracing everything from the Boston Massacre outside the Old State House to the USS Constitution (the world's oldest commissioned naval vessel afloat), she stopped to take pictures of every building and plaque, not wanting to miss a thing. She soon gave up.

“You know,” She said. “I just realized that every building has history. Every building has significance.”

Civil war letter

Dear Brother,

As the night falls I write to you in despair. Our morals are defeated and our spirits shattered. I admit this, of course, with some bitterness, as I know our fall brings great joy to Washington. I was fighting with all my resolve not to address this letter to you, for my selfish nature would not permit myself to lend you any kind of satisfaction. Yet my kinder instinct prevailed, and although I know we have not exchanged thoughts for many years (for good reason), I cannot think of another more worthy of the account I feel convinced to give.

There was a time when I thought all efforts on your side were futile, when even the horror of battle brought with it a confidence of victory, yet now I can scarcely remember if that time even existed. Once my hopes were brightly burning, filled with all the vigor of a foolhardy lad certain his strength and good nature would win the maiden. Now, just as the boy, that flame has been doused with reality.

I shall begin my report from Sunday morning for otherwise I would have too much to write and too little time or space to accomplish it. This one thing I am certain you know, and if not now, then certainly you shall before this letter arrives: Richmond has fallen. The first blue jacket was spotted this morning around 7 o’clock, yet in my opinion she was given up long before that.

Yesterday I was charged early in the morning to go into town and perceive the morale of the people, for some feared the populace had sensed something amiss. I thought it was good of them to sense something amiss for indeed that was true! But still I went, and before passing even two houses I spotted a copy of the Sentinel lying on the ground, it’s headline promising “a large advantage” on the part of our troops. With that sort of encouragement, no wonder I beheld the usual crowd of families riding to church. They were dressed in their Sunday best making casual conversation with one another as if nothing of war had ever reaching their ears. Yet I could tell that behind their painted faces was a tension ready to break. These were no fools. They knew what was coming. I could read it as plainly as I read the day’s paper. Gossip flows all too easily among humans, and if I knew anything about church folk, then these were no exception.

Figuring my duties complete, I turned back towards camp. But as I came upon St. Paul’s I noticed a commotion had rendered the church in a state of chaos. People were streaming out in a panic though from what I couldn’t discern. Only once I got closer did the reasons become easier to distinguish. One lady was talking to another saying, “Only a dire threat could persuade him to leave church!” another replied, “And in the middle of service too!”

Muddled “We must warn them!” and “Did you see the letter?” were also heard among the shouts of voices, and somehow through it all I pieced together the events that had just occurred. Apparently Davis had received a message from General Lee, though of what I can’t be exactly certain. Whatever was said, its contents were of such importance that it forced the president to get up and leave in the middle of service! I could only assume this news was not good. This is what had put the citizens into such a panic. And I can certainly attest to the fact that a good panic is extraordinarily contagious. News of this incident spread like wildfire and soon the streets were filled with signs of evacuation. Wagons were being loaded up, children were screaming, and there was smoke coming from the capitol building, though I later found out this was a large pile of unsigned money being burned on the lawn. I immediately ran back to camp, finding it in no better state than the city. Officers were shouting orders to various militias, some to go burn supplies, others to head to the trains in order to be transported to another location along with the president and various cabinets. Both the 1st and 19th First Class Militia were given orders to remain behind and protect the city. As I was a member of the 19th, this was to be my obligation for the next several hours.

When night had fallen we received word that the troops had begun to evacuate the trenches. This dashed our hopes once and for all and I can assure you there was not one of us eager to be left alone to defend the city. I remember the rest of the night as though in a dream. The chaos was so great that it took all our resolve not to run and flee in terror. The citizens had turned into a mob, setting warehouses and liquor on fire. Though this had started out as a government order, it quickly turned into a state of affairs as out of control as the fire that was now ravaging the city. The ships, too, were on fire. I could see the whole James River Fleet burning with such fury that when it reached the Virginia she exploded with such force I thought for sure July had come early. Some of the men began to loose their wits and dispersed into the crowd, joining them in their mad delight. What was left of us resolved to hold our ground until the next orders came.

It was just before dawn when General Erwell commanded his men to take control of Mayo’s bridge at the foot of 14th street. They were to protect it until the last soldier made it safely across. I was still at my post, wide awake and fully in my right mind, when I saw them rushing the bridge, only to be stopped by the arsenal which right then exploded with such force that the whole city shook and a plume of black smoke arose to greet the morning. I fell to my feet, unaware of whether I was dead or alive, yet fully grasping the fact that our last store of gunpowder had quite literally gone up in smoke.

Soon after this calamity the remains of the army came marching through, and I went with them. We crossed the bridge and promptly destroyed it. I turned back as we marched away, glancing with many others the faint outline of a blue jacket coming over the hill. In my mind I imagined the look on his face, tinted with shock as he beheld the once-grand capitol of the South, twisting and writhing in flames of destruction. I suppose there was some respite in knowing there was nothing left for them to capture.

As I watched the city flood with a sea of blue, and even as I heard the cries of the few who had stayed behind, I felt as though a man walking dead. There are no men void of hope that still breath, just as there are no things damp when caught up in flame. There is no life for me here. Even from where we camp the yellow glow of the city can be seen in all its glory. I suppose the soldiers are trying to put it out even now. Or perhaps they will let it burn. No matter, everything we fought for is lost. The many lives given were all for naught. But no more on that. I humbly congratulate you on your hard-fought victory. Though I know you were wounded beyond fighting condition, I would be pleased to hear a report of your battles, and of the present state mother and Emma are in. You know I can never go home, nor can I write them a letter. If it pleases you, you may report on my condition, as well as give them my love. It is no matter whether they receive it or not, just tell them I am well, and I pray that someday I may do so in person.

Yours,

            William Bennet