gratefully.
Not precisely. Analogies like that can be dangerous.
But they needn’t be.
Not if they’re applied by someone like Ambrose.
It wasn’t precise, but there was something to it.
“What else do you know about Vallandigham, Lorraine?”
Columbia
I T WAS SNOWING on the Congaree River. In this war, anything is possible, the sergeant thought. A sharp north wind was swirling snowflakes at the far end of the pontoon bridge, but they hadn’t reached his end yet. They soon would, though. The staff officers were riding onto the bridge almost at a gallop, to keep up with Sherman’s mount, Sam. A strange creature, that horse. Its natural pace was so fast that Howard, Logan, and Colonel Ewing kept falling behind and had to spur their horses on to keep up, so they moved across the bridge to Columbia in surges, falling back, catching up, falling back.
Then the Fifteenth Army Group thundered onto the bridge. The sergeant looked back and he saw the first four men, four bearded soldiers in Sherman’s great army, which had broken stride so as not to rock the bridge — but being out of step was hardly unusual for them — and ahead of them, striding beside his horse, was Captain Baxter Warren II, under the banner of the Ninety-second Iowa, carried by Sergeant Waleski. Sergeant Waleski had no ears. He’d lost one in the Battle of Warsaw, in Poland, and the other at Fort Donelson. Kapsa looked back again. The Fifteenth Army Group wound across the countryside like a snake with quills, grey bayonets aimed at grey clouds overhead. An unfinished fortress dominated the landscape.Yesterday, they had watched from its tower as Negroes from Columbia helped themselves to sacks of corn and hams piled neatly by the railroad depot. Just below the fortress, Captain DeGress had unlimbered a battery of twenty-pound Parrot guns and was lobbing shot into the town as clusters of Butler’s Cavalry appeared and reappeared in the streets. Sherman had put down his field-glasses and ordered the captain to stop firing, and to put the fear of God into the black looters instead; those hams and that corn were the property of his army. South Carolina, drenched, grey, the unfinished fortress standing there like an old Roman ruin under clouds that ran from grey all the way to black. But there were no signs of a snowstorm anywhere. A strange war. The sergeant turned, spurred his horse, and saw a swirl of snow envelop the general. Everything was topsy-turvy. The white flakes were not falling from the sky but rising from the ground like feathers, as the north wind swirled them into tiny cyclones. Then they fell onto the Congaree River.
Soon the sergeant was caught in the snowflakes too. For a moment they made it hard for him to see the generals cantering away, Sherman’s sweaty hat in the lead and, farther off, the unfinished Confederate government building in the centre of town. A snowflake got up his nose and he sneezed.
King Cotton. Someone had torn the king’s ermine robe into shreds and tatters. A foul smell hit him, and he saw smoke rising from the town. A flash of flame burst through the wall of smoke. Burning cotton fell on the Congaree River.
By night-time, the air was alive with sparks swirling and falling towards the dark waters.
Zinkule believed in ghosts — and in premonitions, prophetic dreams, telepathy, and miracles. He had come to this state after anact of heroism at Kennesaw Mountain, important enough to have been mentioned in the colonel
’
s report. “Although lying on the ground, semi-immobilized by a canister exploding nearby,” the colonel had written, “Corporal Zinkule brought down a Rebel flag-bearer with his bayonet and took possession of the banner.” Shake maintained that the report was essentially true, except that Zinkule had been stunned not by an exploding canister but rather by a Minnie that ricocheted off a rock, hit him on the head, and knocked him down. Yes, Zinkule had been on the ground, and yes, the
Not precisely. Analogies like that can be dangerous.
But they needn’t be.
Not if they’re applied by someone like Ambrose.
It wasn’t precise, but there was something to it.
“What else do you know about Vallandigham, Lorraine?”
Columbia
I T WAS SNOWING on the Congaree River. In this war, anything is possible, the sergeant thought. A sharp north wind was swirling snowflakes at the far end of the pontoon bridge, but they hadn’t reached his end yet. They soon would, though. The staff officers were riding onto the bridge almost at a gallop, to keep up with Sherman’s mount, Sam. A strange creature, that horse. Its natural pace was so fast that Howard, Logan, and Colonel Ewing kept falling behind and had to spur their horses on to keep up, so they moved across the bridge to Columbia in surges, falling back, catching up, falling back.
Then the Fifteenth Army Group thundered onto the bridge. The sergeant looked back and he saw the first four men, four bearded soldiers in Sherman’s great army, which had broken stride so as not to rock the bridge — but being out of step was hardly unusual for them — and ahead of them, striding beside his horse, was Captain Baxter Warren II, under the banner of the Ninety-second Iowa, carried by Sergeant Waleski. Sergeant Waleski had no ears. He’d lost one in the Battle of Warsaw, in Poland, and the other at Fort Donelson. Kapsa looked back again. The Fifteenth Army Group wound across the countryside like a snake with quills, grey bayonets aimed at grey clouds overhead. An unfinished fortress dominated the landscape.Yesterday, they had watched from its tower as Negroes from Columbia helped themselves to sacks of corn and hams piled neatly by the railroad depot. Just below the fortress, Captain DeGress had unlimbered a battery of twenty-pound Parrot guns and was lobbing shot into the town as clusters of Butler’s Cavalry appeared and reappeared in the streets. Sherman had put down his field-glasses and ordered the captain to stop firing, and to put the fear of God into the black looters instead; those hams and that corn were the property of his army. South Carolina, drenched, grey, the unfinished fortress standing there like an old Roman ruin under clouds that ran from grey all the way to black. But there were no signs of a snowstorm anywhere. A strange war. The sergeant turned, spurred his horse, and saw a swirl of snow envelop the general. Everything was topsy-turvy. The white flakes were not falling from the sky but rising from the ground like feathers, as the north wind swirled them into tiny cyclones. Then they fell onto the Congaree River.
Soon the sergeant was caught in the snowflakes too. For a moment they made it hard for him to see the generals cantering away, Sherman’s sweaty hat in the lead and, farther off, the unfinished Confederate government building in the centre of town. A snowflake got up his nose and he sneezed.
King Cotton. Someone had torn the king’s ermine robe into shreds and tatters. A foul smell hit him, and he saw smoke rising from the town. A flash of flame burst through the wall of smoke. Burning cotton fell on the Congaree River.
By night-time, the air was alive with sparks swirling and falling towards the dark waters.
Zinkule believed in ghosts — and in premonitions, prophetic dreams, telepathy, and miracles. He had come to this state after anact of heroism at Kennesaw Mountain, important enough to have been mentioned in the colonel
’
s report. “Although lying on the ground, semi-immobilized by a canister exploding nearby,” the colonel had written, “Corporal Zinkule brought down a Rebel flag-bearer with his bayonet and took possession of the banner.” Shake maintained that the report was essentially true, except that Zinkule had been stunned not by an exploding canister but rather by a Minnie that ricocheted off a rock, hit him on the head, and knocked him down. Yes, Zinkule had been on the ground, and yes, the
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