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Monthly Archives: January 2019
I’ve been using the term “Appalachia” in my dissertation. The people I study lived in present-day East Tennessee and southwestern Virginia. That’s Appalachia by just about any contemporary reckoning, so it might seem like a no-brainer.
The tricky part is that I’m writing about the Revolutionary era, and nobody really called it “Appalachia” in the eighteenth century. It’s not that the word wasn’t around. In fact, “Appalachia” is one of the oldest European place-names in the U.S. It comes from a sixteenth-century Spanish transliteration of the name of a village in Florida, later applied to the mountainous area to the northward.But “Appalachia” as a common name for the mountain South only dates back to the late nineteenth century, when Americans formulated the idea of the region as a culturally distinct unit. In an eighteenth-century context, it’s anachronistic.
Does that matter? The point of language is to communicate, and when we use words with meanings everybody knows, it saves a lot of trouble. But language doesn’t just ascribe intended meanings to things. It also reinforces the unintended meanings and associations that accumulate around words like barnacles on pier pilings. And the term “Appalachia” has many such associations.
Eighteenth-century observers did think of Appalachia’s white settlers as set apart in some respects, but they didn’t use the term “Appalachian” to do so. Whereas nineteenth-century commentators thought of a culturally distinct and isolated region contained within the U.S., eighteenth-century observers emphasized its geographic position at the back end of British America. That’s reflected in the terminology they used. What we consider Appalachia would have been “the backcountry” or the “back parts.” I use “backcountry” a lot in my dissertation, but I don’t think it’s totally synonymous. It’s a more slippery, generalized term that applies to more than just the mountainous South.
Some eighteenth-century observers referred to white settlers in East Tennessee and southwestern Virginia as “back water men,” or said that they lived on the “back mountains” or “western waters.” These phrases reflect the same sort of Atlantic vs. western orientation as “backcountry” and “back parts.” They emphasized the fact that these settlers lived on the western side of the mountains, where the rivers flowed toward the Mississippi. These terms are more specific than “backcountry,” but also narrower than “Appalachia.” There were plenty of whites settled in the Appalachian backcountry who weren’t “back water” men.
Maybe I shouldn’t be looking for an eighteenth-century equivalent to “Appalachia” at all. If people didn’t think of the mountainous South as a distinct region at the time, perhaps I’m just buying into the nineteenth-century myth of Appalachia by trying to conceptualize it as its own, unique thing.
Then again, there’s something to be said for staking a claim for Appalachia in an early American context. A lot of historians who specialize in the region focus on the nineteenth or twentieth centuries. Applying the term to the Revolutionary era reminds people that the tumultuous events of that period mattered profoundly in the mountain South. Rather than agonizing over whether it’s anachronistic, maybe the best approach is to appropriate it for historically informed purposes.
Here’s another one to add to the list of new and forthcoming books on the Rev War in the South. John Buchanan’s The Road to Charleston picks up where his acclaimed The Road to Guilford Courthouse left off:
Greene’s Southern Campaign was the most difficult of the war. With a supply line stretching hundreds of miles northward, it revealed much about the crucial military art of provision and transport. Insufficient manpower a constant problem, Greene attempted to incorporate black regiments into his army, a plan angrily rejected by the South Carolina legislature. A bloody civil war between Rebels and Tories was wreaking havoc on the South at the time, forcing Greene to address vigilante terror and restore civilian government. As his correspondence with Thomas Jefferson during the campaign shows, Greene was also bedeviled by the conflict between war and the rights of the people, and the question of how to set constraints under which a free society wages war.
Joining Greene is an unforgettable cast of characters—men of strong and, at times, antagonistic personalities—all of whom are vividly portrayed. We also follow the fate of Greene’s tenacious foe, Lieutenant Colonel Francis, Lord Rawdon. By the time the British evacuate Charleston—and Greene and his ragged, malaria-stricken, faithful Continental Army enter the city in triumph—the reader has witnessed in telling detail one of the most punishing campaigns of the Revolution, culminating in one of its greatest victories.
Road to Guilford Courthouse is probably the most engaging book ever written about the Southern Campaign, so it’s nice to see Buchanan finishing the story of Greene’s reconquista. The Road to Charleston hits stores this March.