Sorry about the lull, guys. Been busy with grad school stuff, and had a nasty case of pneumonia there for a while. Here, have a video of a cat dressed like a Confederate officer.
Sorry about the lull, guys. Been busy with grad school stuff, and had a nasty case of pneumonia there for a while. Here, have a video of a cat dressed like a Confederate officer.
The Governor John Sevier Memorial Association now has an AmazonSmile account, which means you can support Marble Springs State Historic Site just by treating yourself to stuff you’d order online anyway.
Next time you decide to buy something from Amazon, go to smile.amazon.com and select “Governor John Sevier Memorial Association” as your preferred charity. Whenever you’re logged into AmazonSmile, a portion of your purchase price will go to GJSMA. It doesn’t cost you anything extra. Amazon ponies up the donation for you., so you’ll get the same products at the usual prices.
No more feeling guilty when you splurge on books, since it’s all going to a worthy cause. Just remember to use smile.amazon.com instead of the regular Amazon site whenever you’re shopping online. GJSMA only gets the donation when you’re logged into AmazonSmile instead of Amazon.com.
Now, go buy stuff!
So I’m working on a project linking frontiersmen’s mobilization in the Revolutionary War to eighteenth-century conceptions of masculinity and manhood. I’ve been putting together a reading list of books on masculinity in early America, and I’ll be drawing on the work of John Ruddiman and Lorri Glover (who was one of my first grad school professors).
One of the angles I’d really like to explore is whether Americans of the Revolutionary era associated manhood to the defense of one’s home and family. Since frontier settlers played up the need for security in their Revolutionary rhetoric, tying the defense of the home to manhood would make it a lot easier for me to examine the importance of ideas about masculinity that affected their participation in the Revolution. Do any of you fine folks know of any scholarly literature or contemporary material that explores this association?
This week I’ve been reading Steven Deyle’s Carry Me Back: The Domestic Slave Trade in American Life for one of my classes. It’s one of the most engrossing books I’ve come across in grad school, and if you haven’t read it, I encourage you to put it on your list.
One of the topics Deyle addresses is the slave trade in Washington, D.C. I knew slave traders were active in the District of Columbia until 1850, but I didn’t know (or I’d forgotten) that trading in human beings went on just a stone’s throw from the U.S. Capitol building.
One of the illustrations in Deyle’s book is a map from an anti-slavery broadside showing three of the largest pens where D.C. traders kept their merchandise. The map places the slave house of Joseph Neal & Co. on Seventh Street near the southern edge of the National Mall. That’s less than two-thirds of a mile from the Capitol. Here’s a modern map of the Mall with a dropped pin near the site of Neal’s slave house. The Capitol is on the right side of the image, the Washington Monument on the left:
There were a couple of other large slave pens just a few blocks north, one of which belonged to a trader named William Williams. Solomon Northup of 12 Years a Slave fame spent about two weeks imprisoned there after his kidnapping. Here’s how he remembered Williams’s slave prison and the savage beating he endured there:
The light admitted through the open door enabled me to observe the room in which I was confined. It was about twelve feet square—the walls of solid masonry. The floor was of heavy plank. There was one small window, crossed with great iron bars, with an outside shutter, securely fastened.
An iron-bound door led into an adjoining cell, or vault, wholly destitute of windows, or any means of admitting light. The furniture of the room in which I was, consisted of the wooden bench on which I sat, an old-fashioned, dirty box stove, and besides these, in either cell, there was neither bed, nor blanket, nor any other thing whatever. The door, through which Burch [James H. Birch, the D.C. slave trader who purchased Northup from his kidnappers] and Radburn entered, led through a small passage, up a flight of steps into a yard, surrounded by a brick wall ten or twelve feet high, immediately in rear of a building of the same width as itself. The yard extended rearward from the house about thirty feet. In one part of the wall there was a strongly ironed door, opening into a narrow, covered passage, leading along one side of the house into the street. The doom of the colored man, upon whom the door leading out of that narrow passage closed, was sealed. The top of the wall supported one end of a roof, which ascended inwards, forming a kind of open shed. Underneath the roof there was a crazy loft all round, where slaves, if so disposed, might sleep at night, or in inclement weather seek shelter from the storm. It was like a farmer’s barnyard in most respects, save it was so constructed that the outside world could never see the human cattle that were herded there.
The building to which the yard was attached, was two stories high, fronting on one of the public streets of Washington. Its outside presented only the appearance of a quiet private residence. A stranger looking at it, would never have dreamed of its execrable uses. Strange as it may seem, within plain sight of this same house, looking down from its commanding height upon it, was the Capitol. The voices of patriotic representatives boasting of freedom and equality, and the rattling of the poor slave’s chains, almost commingled. A slave pen within the very shadow of the Capitol!
Such is a correct description as it was in 1841, of Williams’ slave pen in Washington, in one of the cellars of which I found myself so unaccountably confined.
“Well, my boy, how do you feel now?” said Burch, as he entered through the open door. I replied that I was sick, and inquired the cause of my imprisonment. He answered that I was his slave— that he had bought me, and that he was about to send me to New-Orleans. I asserted, aloud and boldly, that I was a freeman—a resident of Saratoga, where I had a wife and children, who were also free, and that my name was Northup. I complained bitterly of the strange treatment I had received, and threatened, upon my liberation, to have satisfaction for the wrong. He denied that I was free, and with an emphatic oath, declared that I came from Georgia. Again and again I asserted I was no man’s slave, and insisted upon his taking off my chains at once. He endeavored to hush me, as if he feared my voice would be overheard. But I would not be silent, and denounced the authors of my imprisonment, whoever they might be, as unmitigated villains. Finding he could not quiet me, he flew into a towering passion. With blasphemous oaths, he called me a black liar, a runaway from Georgia, and every other profane and vulgar epithet that the most indecent fancy could conceive.
During this time Radburn was standing silently by. His business was, to oversee this human, or rather inhuman stable, receiving slaves, feeding, and whipping them, at the rate of two shillings a head per day. Turning to him, Burch ordered the paddle and cat-o’-ninetails to be brought in. He disappeared, and in a few moments returned with these instruments of torture. The paddle, as it is termed in slave-beating parlance, or at least the one with which I first became acquainted, and of which I now speak, was a piece of hard-wood board, eighteen or twenty inches long, moulded to the shape of an old-fashioned pudding stick, or ordinary oar The flattened portion, which was about the size in circumference of two open hands, was bored with a small auger in numerous places. The cat was a large rope of many strands— the strands unraveled, and a knot tied at the extremity of each.
As soon as these formidable whips appeared, I was seized by both of them, and roughly divested of my clothing. My feet, as has been stated, were fastened to the floor. Drawing me over the bench, face downwards, Radburn placed his heavy foot upon the fetters, between my wrists, holding them painfully to the floor. With the paddle, Burch commenced beating me. Blow after blow was inflicted upon my naked body. When his unrelenting arm grew tired, he stopped and asked if I still insisted I was a free man. I did insist upon it, and then the blows were renewed, faster and more energetically, if possible, than before. When again tired, he would repeat the same question, and receiving the same answer, continue his cruel labor. All this time, the incarnate devil was uttering most fiendish oaths. At length the paddle broke, leaving the useless handle in his hand. Still I would not yield. All his brutal blows could not force from my lips the foul lie that I was a slave. Casting madly on the floor the handle of the broken paddle, he seized the rope. This was far more painful than the other. I struggled with all my power, but it was in vain. I prayed for mercy, but my prayer was only answered with imprecations and with stripes. I thought I must die beneath the lashes of the accursed brute. Even now the flesh crawls upon my bones, as I recall the scene. I was all on fire. My sufferings I can compare to nothing else than the burning agonies of hell!
At last I became silent to his repeated questions. I would make no reply. In fact, I was becoming almost unable to speak. Still he plied the lash without stint upon my poor body, until it seemed that the lacerated flesh was stripped from my bones at every stroke. A man with a particle of mercy in his soul would not have beaten even a dog so cruelly. At length Radburn said that it was useless to whip me any more—that I would be sore enough. Thereupon Burch desisted, saying, with an admonitory shake of his fist in my face, and hissing the words through his firm-set teeth, that if ever I dared to utter again that I was entitled to my freedom, that I had been kidnapped, or any thing whatever of the kind, the castigation I had just received was nothing in comparison with what would follow. He swore that he would either conquer or kill me. With these consolatory words, the fetters were taken from my wrists, my feet still remaining fastened to the ring; the shutter of the little barred window, which had been opened, was again closed, and going out, locking the great door behind them, I was left in darkness as before.
For more info on the slave trade in Washington, D.C., check out Mary Beth Corrigan’s article in Washington History and this piece from the National Archives.
Normally I’d be thrilled to find a lawmaker who’s passionate about historic preservation, but Rep. Benton’s motives seem…well, to say they’re “other than noble” would be putting it charitably:
He flatly asserts the Civil War wasn’t fought over slavery, compares Confederate leaders to the Founding Fathers and is profoundly irritated with what he deems a “cultural cleansing” of Southern history. He also said the Ku Klux Klan, while he didn’t agree with all of their methods, “made a lot of people straighten up.”
No, your eyes aren’t deceiving you. That’s an elected official defending the KKK in the year 2016. According to Benton, the Klan “was not so much a racist thing but a vigilante thing to keep law and order.” And to promote the wearing of festive, pointy-headed costumes, one might add.
Benton’s views are why for years he has pushed legislation that would protect the state’s historical monuments from being marred or moved. This year he is stepping up his efforts with two newly introduced measures, one of which seeks to amend the state constitution to permanently protect the carving of Confederate President Jefferson Davis and Gens. Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson at Stone Mountain.
Aaaannnnnddd this is one reason why it’s hard for conscientious preservationists who prefer to leave historic monuments in their original context to make their case. There are plenty of folks out there who have no desire to endorse or perpetuate the sentiments these monuments’ creators wanted to express; they just want to leave historic landscapes intact so that we can interpret them as we would a historic home or an artifact. But with yahoos like Benton running their mouths, it’s easy to assume that the only folks who oppose removing Confederate monuments are racist ignoramuses. The best thing Rep. Benton could do for historic preservation would be to put as much daylight between himself and other preservationists as possible.
Oh, and he doesn’t think the Civil War was about slavery, because of course he doesn’t.
Benton, a retired middle school history teacher, equates Confederate leaders with the American revolutionaries of the 18th century — fighting a tyrannical government for political independence.
“The war was not fought over slavery,” he said. Those who disagree “can believe what they want to,” he said.
He used to teach middle school history, and now he’s a legislator. You decide which is more disturbing; I’ll be slamming my forehead against a desk somewhere.
If you haven’t seen the special exhibit of Lloyd Branson’s art at the East Tennessee Historical Society yet, I highly recommend it. I’ve been twice, mostly to get a closer look at Branson’s masterpiece: his painting of the muster at Sycamore Shoals, on loan from the Tennessee State Museum.
Completed in 1915, it’s a landmark in the history of Tennessee art and an important example of Rev War memorialization. Branson’s epitaph refers to this painting alone out of all his other works: “THE TENNESSEE ARTIST WHOSE GENIUS CREATED THE PICTURE ‘SYCAMORE SHOALS’ AND BY IT IMMORTALIZED THE TURNING POINT THAT EANT LASTING VICTORY IN THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION A.D. 1780.”
I’ve seen it before, of course—so have you, if you’ve ever taken a look at my blog’s header—but always in the King’s Mountain exhibit case at the State Museum. Without that protective glass and dim lighting, it’s like looking at a whole new canvas. The colors are much more vivid, and you start to pick out details you’ve always missed. It’s sort of like the first time you watch something in HD.
For example, here’s a group of militiamen gathered around a fire. Looks like the guy on the far right is wearing a brown frock and leggings. A little white dog appears to have followed his master to the muster ground.
The guy in the blue coat is checking his horse’s feet—not a bad idea, considering he’s got a trip of something like 200 miles ahead of him. One soldier with a blanket roll hurries to catch up with his comrades. In the foreground, a volunteer kisses his wife or sweetheart goodbye, maybe for the last time.
I’d never noticed this African American before; he’s on the left-hand side of the painting, near the bank of the Watauga River. The force that attacked Ferguson did include some black men. Lyman Draper reports that Col. William Campbell’s mixed-race slave John Broddy was along for the march. Another black King’s Mountain vet was Ishmael Titus, who was born a slave in Virginia and earned his freedom by serving as a substitute for his North Carolina master.
Here’s something else I’d always missed when looking at printed images of the painting: Branson put a couple of Native Americans at the muster. Just a few months after the scene depicted here, the settlers in present-day Tennessee would be at war with their Indian neighbors again, and John Sevier would be leading his men south into the mountains on another campaign.
Is that a road running along the riverbank? Perhaps it’s the trail that will take the Overmountain Men toward their camp at Shelving Rock.
There’s a fire going in one of the cabins nearby, and it looks like somebody’s cultivating the fields by the river. More horses are lined up and ready for the long ride that will end in South Carolina.
Not all the Overmountain Men were mounted. Here a group of footmen head out with rifles, blanket rolls, powder horns, and cartridge pouches. As big and busy as this scene is, the amount of detail that Branson put into these small figures is remarkable.
There are two prominent men on horseback in the foreground, shaking hands with well-wishers before setting off. If I recall correctly—and I don’t remember where I read this, so it’s a rather big “if”—the one on the left is supposed to be Isaac Shelby, and Sevier’s the one on the right. Don’t quote me on that, though.
Even more mounted volunteers head out from a fortified building (Ft. Watauga, perhaps?). In the distance are the Appalachian mountains, the same ones Ferguson has threatened to march over to lay waste to the settlements. The riflemen beside the river will be crossing those hills instead, headed in the other direction to take out Ferguson and his Tories.
The more time you spend with the painting, and the closer and more carefully you look, the more you start to pick out finer details, and at some point all those seemingly indistinct figures start to take on a life of their own. It’s not unlike the process of studying history, come to think of it.
It’s nice to see The Revenant getting some attention during movie awards season. Although it takes quite a few liberties with the Hugh Glass story, it’s a well-made film and a powerful depiction of the hardships and dangers endured by the nineteenth-century fur traders.
One of the things that struck me about the movie is the way its two main characters reflect contrasting frontier archetypes, set apart by their interactions with the West’s original inhabitants. These archetypes appear and again over the course of the American frontier’s history, from the colonial era through the late nineteenth century.
For some people, the frontier was a liminal realm where cultural and racial barriers broke down and where a degree of mutual accommodation and hybridity was possible. Moving and living among Indians, these traders, trappers, and missionaries straddled the border between the worlds in which they were born and the ones they inhabited. Examples of this type would include the coureurs de bois of New France, who sometimes too up residence among Indians, learned their languages, adopted their dress and customs, and married into their societies. Another would be Simon Girty, who assimilated into Indian culture and fought with Britain’s Native allies in the American Revolution.
In the film, Hugh Glass (the title character played by Leonardo DiCaprio) comes across as this type of frontiersman. Formerly married to an Indian woman, he has a mixed-race son and is himself bilingual, as fluent in the language of the Indians he encounters as he is in English. The film’s Glass thus represents a particular frontier archetype: the white man for whom cultural and ethnic barriers are permeable.
Richard Slotkin has referred to the archetypal “man who knows Indians” in frontier literature. This figure is often a warrior; he uses his familiarity with Indians to defeat them on their own terms, demonstrating his own superiority in the process. The Revenant‘s take is a little different. While Glass has violent encounters with Indians, the point of his ordeal is not so much that he survives by killing Native foes, but rather the fact of his survival itself. Indeed, his ability to communicate and interact with Indians on something like an equal footing plays an important role in his survival.
If some historians have portrayed the frontier as a zone of adaptation and exchange, other scholars have portrayed it as a realm prone to explosions of bloody conflict. From this perspective, the frontier was not a place where cultures overlapped and blended, but a place where they collided and ground against each other like tectonic plates. For many frontier whites, familiarity with Indians bred contempt rather than accommodation. They had no use for Natives, nor for the easterners who stood in the way of extirpating them. The work of Peter Silver, David Andrew Nichols, Patrick Griffin, Brendan Lindsey, and Ned Blackhawk reminds us how prevalent this “Indianophobia” could become. Historical representatives of the Indian-hating westerner would be men such as the Paxton Boys or the perpetrators of the slaughter of peaceful Christian Indians at Gnadenhutten. An individual example would be John Kirk, Jr., who murdered a group of Cherokees under a flag of truce to avenge the massacre of his own family at Indian hands in East Tennessee during the 1780s.
In The Revenant, the treacherous John Fitzgerald (played to chilling effect by Tom Hardy) is the archetypal Indian-hating frontiersman. He is suspicious of Glass for his past residence with the Pawnees, and is openly contemptuous of the son Glass fathered with an Indian wife. Perhaps Fitzgerald’s hatred for Indians is as personal as Kirk’s, since the kerchief he wears on his head covers the scars of a scalping he survived and can still vividly recall.
I don’t know if the filmmakers intended Glass and Fitzgerald to stand in for these two contrasting types of frontiersman, the cultural hybrid and the Indian-hater. But the degree to which the characters reflect the varied ways whites dealt with the frontier and its Indian inhabitants suggests a greater degree of historical sensibility than we usually get from Hollywood. In any case, I recommend you see the movie for yourself.