April in Appomattox

Robert E Lee Carrington and Anthony Washington grew up maybe a half mile from each other and never knew it until sixty years later. 3850 words.

Bright April sunshine warmed the damp earth as it always does in this part of Virginia. A swift, assertive breeze pushed haystack-shaped clouds across the horizon. April meant alternating sunshine and rain, a wake-up call to the land, and already the grass had begun changing from winter brown to summertime green.

Robert E. Lee Carrington, thickset and fast approaching seventy, strolled around Appomattox Court House National Historic Park, hands clasped behind his back and deep in thought. This year he didn’t wear the black mourning band stitched to his jacket sleeve like Daddy did. People didn’t understand, and his wife Louise thought it was silly, although he knew Daddy would appreciate the gesture. Today was April twelfth, 1997, one hundred thirty-two years and three days after General Lee had signed the surrender, and the day the Army of Northern Virginia furled the colors of the Confederacy for the last time, marking the end to the War Between the States. It all happened on these very grounds. Richmond had already fallen, burned to ashes, and what was once a revolution had become the Lost Cause.

For Robert, this was Daddy’s day of mourning, the end of a bold undertaking as big as the American Revolution of 1776, except this time, his kinsmen fought on the losing side.

History is written by the winners, Robert thought. On the way into the park, he had pulled off Old Courthouse Road to visit the Confederate cemetery and read the historical marker erected by the United Daughters of the Confederacy that took some of the sting out of the loss. Somebody appreciated what all those boys died for. Those eighteen small Confederate headstones represented something.

He continued his stroll among the various buildings that made up the village, stopping at the park service marker in front of the McLean House, the site where Generals Lee and Grant met and put an end to four years of the bloodiest fighting seen on this continent.

Robert never pondered what life would be like had the war gone the other way and he were a citizen of the Confederate States. This annual pilgrimage to Appomattox was a tradition he picked up from Daddy, Judge Ronald J. Carrington. The Judge’s stature in Guilford and Chesterton County made him as permanent a fixture as the flagpole in front of the courthouse, or the meandering path of Thatcher’s Creek.

The Judge had been an unshakable segregationist. He put his official seal of approval on dissolving the county school system in 1959 rather than integrating. Even if the government said colored and white children had to learn side by side, then by God, there will be no more public schools at all, nothing to integrate.

The standoff lasted five years. Robert, then practicing law in Alexandria at the time, could only gape at Daddy’s audacity and his ability to wield the law like a precision instrument. “Standing in a schoolhouse door won’t stop a damned thing.” The Judge once said, waving a newspaper photo of Governor George Wallace blocking the entry to the University of Alabama. “He only did that because he ran out of ideas and didn’t know how to work the machinery of the law.” He shook his head as if he were walking past the village idiot.

As a young soldier fighting in Korea, Robert worked, ate, fought and slept alongside numerous black troops in President Truman’s integrated Army. In many ways he had more in common with the blacks than the white Yankees who didn’t know a thing about grits and ham with redeye gravy at breakfast, pulled pork barbecue and cornbread with molasses for supper, or the simple value of owning land that could be plowed and planted.

He had never mentioned this to his father, never venturing any closer than his stories about the guys from New York trying to eat grits with milk and sugar. Daddy wouldn’t understand that the only colors the Army officially recognized were olive drab and khaki. He would have held this infraction of mixing with blacks against young Robert, who knew better than to displease Daddy. So all of Robert’s Army comrades who were Southern became white, no matter their original shade.

Segregation was important to The Judge, and Robert publicly mirrored Daddy views, a hard man who seldom paid him compliments. Over the years and with practice, parroting the Judge’s views and opinions grew on him much the same way a pair of shoes will take on the smallest contours of a man’s feet, until they mold themselves to every bulge and indentation. Robert longed for Daddy’s approval, and this had proven a sure way to earn the occasional kind word.

Being asked to join the judge in the annual pilgrimage to the park at Appomattox Court House came as a singular honor. He was twelve at the time, the oldest of the three Carrington children, and the only son. The tradition passed to his generation.

The bright day and greening trees seemed too cheerful to make this the Judge’s day of reflection and mourning. So much had changed over the years. Daddy’s gloomy predictions had only partially come true. The niggers were now equal to white men under the law, and they took public office and ran businesses. But they never ran wild in the streets to gang-rape white women. Instead, they seemed too occupied with victimizing members of their own race.

The shadows shortened as noontime arrived, and Robert walked past the Isbell House to his car in the main parking lot. He had packed a small cooler with cold barbecued chicken and potato salad in the trunk. As he neared the parking lot, he saw an identical 1995 Buick LeSabre parked next to his. Same style vinyl roof and wheel covers, the only real differences was that the second car carried a metallic green color rather Robert’s silver gray and did not sport a “Forget, hell!” bumper sticker with the Confederate stars and bars.

A black man close to Robert’s age and a young boy stood at the back of the second Buick. The man opened the trunk and lifted an ice chest out as Robert walked to his car. The boy took a large thermos and a paper sack. Robert saw a family resemblance between the two as he opened the trunk of his car, the same square jaw and forehead, even the same close-cropped haircut, although it would be decades before the boy’s hair would take on that salt-and-pepper shade.

“A perfect day for a picnic, isn’t it?” The black man nodded greeting at Robert and his cooler.

“Yes, it is.” Robert found himself returning the man’s smile, a warm reflection of the spring sunshine.

“Care to join us, sir?” He spoke as a neighbor, a friendly greeting in the sir, not the servile tones spoken by colored men in The Judge’s day.

“Well, I don’t want to impose.” Robert glanced at his feet. Today was supposed to be a serious day of mourning to reflect on what could have been, Daddy’s tradition.

“Come break bread with us.” The black man gestured toward a cluster of picnic tables off the end of the parking lot. “It’s too pretty a day to eat alone.” His smile remained and he waved at the table.

Robert couldn’t think of any reason to refuse and took his own picnic lunch from the trunk of his car. The boy looked no more than eight years old, and he scampered ahead to claim a picnic table in the shade of a massive maple tree. A restored cannon stood a dozen feet to its side. The breeze shifted direction, sweet with something blooming, and birds chirped.

“I’ve seen you around town.” The black man set his ice chest on the picnic table and extended his right hand, eyes betraying faint recognition. “I’m Anthony Washington.” He nodded toward the boy. “And my grandson Tony.”

He shook hands. “Robert Carrington. You’re from Guilford?”

“Born and raised.” He opened the ice chest. It bore a worn bumper sticker for the Detroit Lions. “Moved to Detroit in ‘58. Retired, and now I’m back home.” He paused to scan the countryside of rolling hills and patches of trees. “Sure feels good.” The smile returned as he drew a deep breath. “Is that honeysuckle already?”

Robert tested the air. “Can’t say for sure.”

Washington reached inside the ice chest and set out two Tupperware containers. He handed a bag to Tony and sat down. The boy set three places with paper plates and plastic forks, pouring iced tea into three paper cups. Robert placed his foil-wrapped chicken and tub of potato salad next to the Tupperware and took a seat on the bench opposite Washington.

“Let’s give thanks before we eat.” Washington glanced at Robert and Tony, then bowed his head. “Father God, for what we are about to eat, may we be thankful. Amen.”

Robert felt awkward for a moment because he had fallen out of the habit of praying before meals, then thankful for the brevity of Washington’s blessing.

“Tony, this is Mr Carrington.” Washington pried the lid off a Tupperware container to reveal fried chicken.

“How do you do, sir?” Tony reached out his right hand.

“Pleased to meet you.” Robert shook hands. The boy had a firm grip, as if somebody had been giving him lessons.

“Mr Carrington’s from Guilford, practically a neighbor.” He glanced at Robert. “Tony’s family and I live on the west side, so he doesn’t see much of downtown.”

Robert unwrapped his foil bundle of chicken, a drumstick and a breast, releasing the sharp, inviting aroma of barbecue sauce. Both Washington and grandson Tony took notice. “Help yourselves.” he gestured at the meat.

Washington offered the tub of fried chicken. “I’ll trade you.”

“Deal.” Robert saw Tony’s eyes on the barbecued chicken and offered him the drumstick.

Robert dished up a serving of the slaw. “What kind of work did you do?” He imagined Washington to have been a janitor or perhaps a porter in a hotel. Colored people always did well in service jobs, and a smile like his would fetch handsome tips.

Washington’s eyes brightened and he pointed at both their cars. “I built those.”

Robert looked at the cars. “Buicks?” The idea had never crossed his mind.

1995 Buick LeSabre

“For almost forty years.” Pride glowed on Washington’s face. “Worked on every model from the original Roadmaster to the new one. Installing seats to bolting transmissions to engines. I was foreman in the paint shop when I retired.”

Robert’s eyebrows rose, impressed. He never had much talent with cars. Oil changes, new wiper blades, and rotating tires were jobs delegated to the pros at the garage. This man had those skills and more. “Still have your tools?”

Washington wiped barbecue sauce from his chin. “Now that’s a silly question.” The laugh lines around his eyes deepened. “Don’t know if I want to be buried with them or leave them to Tony.” He patted his grandson on the back. “And what line of work are you in, Mr Carrington?”

“I’m supposed to be a retired lawyer.” Robert shrugged.

“Supposed to be?” Washington’s cheeks dimpled.

“I sold my practice and collect Social Security, but there’s still old clients who won’t go noplace else.” Robert held up his hands. “How can I turn them down?”

“I think I know the feeling. Some days I see a new car, and I know how it went together. Sometimes I can’t help but check the paint, see if they did it right.”

Robert glanced over his shoulder back at their two Buicks. “Like mine?” He smiled.

“I think my crew painted your car. They did mine. I picked it off the line myself.” Washington leveled an appraising eye on Robert’s sedan. “That silver gray is a popular color. You do have a garage to keep it out of the sun?” Professional concern showed in his eyes.

“A carport.” Robert set down a bare chicken bone. “How did you end up in Detroit? That’s a long way from Guilford.”

“It’s where the work was after Korea, the Chosin frozen.” Washington’s cheeks creased.

Robert felt a smile coming to his face as well. “I’ll be.” He shook his head. “I was there, too. Didn’t know what real cold was until Korea.”

“Springtime in Appomattox is a whole lot nicer.” Washington stretched his hands out. “Just look at all that green.”

“It is pretty.” Robert nodded. He had never paid much attention to the landscape until Washington pointed things out.

“And today is a very special day.” Washington patted his grandson’s back. “The reason why I brought young Tony out here.”

Robert felt his belly tense up, as if somebody had been watching him through the window. Today was Daddy’s special day for mourning. How could it be a day for Anthony Washington as well?

“Tony and I are here because this is the day the Confederacy surrendered and the war ended.” Washington smiled and rubbed the top of Tony’s head. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yessir.” Tony looked up and paused a moment between bites of barbecued chicken and coleslaw.

“Old men like us remember history, but it’s no good if we don’t teach it to the young’uns.” Washington’s face sobered. “I took Tony through the Visitor Center, then into the McLean house to show him where it all started.” Washington’s eyes met Robert’s. “He never knew.”

McLean House at Appomattox

The fried chicken in Robert’s mouth turned cold and clammy, it’s texture suddenly rubbery and without flavor. Of course, Anthony Washington would know about today’s date in history if he looked it up. What would he say next? That Lee and Jefferson Davis and the Lost Cause were agents of the Devil himself, that everything the Old South stood for was evil and inhuman? And what was this about something starting on this day? Anybody who knew the story, knew that it was the end. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia folded the colors for the last time and disbanded. If it was the start of anything, it was the beginning of a long slide down.

Robert swallowed hard and took a breath. “Where what started?” He suspected that he’d end up in an argument.

Washington’s face remained sober. “Civil rights,” he said as if the answer were obvious. “The road to today’s civil rights, all the stuff that Tony and his friends take for granted started right there.” He pointed to the McLean house, where Lee signed the surrender. “And today was the day to tell him the story.”

“The beginning?” Robert’s gut lost some tension. Daddy’s day of mourning remained a family secret. Washington spoke of something different, something new, and Robert wanted to make sure it squared with the facts.

“If you look at American history, there’s a path that winds its way through the civil rights movement, and if you work backwards, it runs through the parlor of the McLean house.” Washington’s eyes glowed with certainty. “General Lee’s surrender allowed a chain of events that led right up to Dr King and the rights we struggled for.” He nodded in the direction of the McLean house. “That’s where the modern civil rights movement started, here in 1865.”

Robert scratched at his temple. Today had always marked the end of the era to Daddy, and he had never considered anything different. Washington’s words pointed at something new.

Washington waited a moment, then met Robert’s eyes. “Never thought about it in those terms?”

Robert slowly shook his head, blinking. “Never occurred to me.”

“I don’t mean to spout off, but I wanted Tony to know that it began here. America had enough of that war, and it was time to rebuild. Lee’s surrender was the first step to peace. Without it, no reconstruction, no civil rights, and no Martin Luther King.”

Robert knit his brow and crossed his arms. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. This came as new information, and he could follow Washington’s reasoning. Daddy’s view could never connect General Lee to Martin Luther King.

“The Confederacy was finished.” Washington counted on his fingers. Richmond wasn’t much more than smoldering ruins and the government fled to Danville at the last minute. Lee knew that his only option was to surrender with some semblance of honor. That or wait for Grant to hunt him down like a dog. Right?”

Robert nodded agreement. Washington’s words squared with the facts. Lee’s army had been torn to tatters, his last hope for supplies gone when Custer captured those trains.

“Lee was a man of honor, old school – anybody can see that – and he did the right thing by quitting when he knew he was beat. General Grant was from the same school, and he did the right thing by feeding all those Confederates before sending them home with parole passes for their safety.” Washington nodded. “If the war had ended in a rout, if Lee didn’t stop it and tell his men it was over, then Reconstruction would have been a lot harder – might still be going on. The old victor and vanquished bit, and that never solved anything.”

Grant and Lee signing the Confederate surrender

Robert found himself gaping and closed his mouth. What Washington said fit the historical facts. The interpretation looked like a whole new view of what happened this day, and Washington’s reasoning made sense. “You really know your history.”

“University of Chicago on the GI Bill.” Washington’s shoulders relaxed as he tapped his temple. “It’s still good for something.”

“You have a degree?” Another surprise.

“A bachelors in history.” Washington shrugged. “I sort of took a special interest in the war.”

“So, how’d you end up building Buicks?” He was still sorting out all this new information. Robert knew black doctors and lawyers, but Washington was his first degreed autoworker.

“Not a whole lot of demand out there for a black man with a history degree in those days.” Washington’s voice came out flat as if he were reading the time off his watch. He balled up his paper napkin. “I could have gotten a job teaching, probably in a Negro school, but spending the rest of my days in a classroom didn’t look too appealing right then. GM was hiring and paying a lot better.” He shrugged. “Kept me busy and well-paid.” The smile came back to his cheeks. “They don’t call it Generous Motors for nothing.”

Robert smiled back, the response involuntary and reflexive. Washington didn’t show any bitterness or hostility over the experience, quite a different picture from the agitators, Daddy’s word, that occasionally made trouble in Richmond or up in DC. Their grievances were smaller, yet their complaining shriller. Robert finished his potato salad, the reflection of Washington’s smile still on his face. “I take it you’re happy with the pension plan.”

“I made better money there than I would have as a history teacher, white or black, and I can still get a fifteen percent discount on wheels like that.” He nodded at his car. “I wasn’t the only college-educated guy on the line.”

Robert poked at the Detroit Lions sticker on the cooler. “Why retire to Guilford, when you could have gone to Florida?”

Washington leaned on his elbows. “Why didn’t you?” He eyed Robert as if he already knew the answer.

Robert shrugged. “I live here.”

“And Guilford’s my home, too.” Washington’s eyes drifted to the rolling hills in the west that vanished into forests and would eventually become the Blue Ridge. “These hills and trees, you won’t find them down there, or any other place in the world, and that’s something I missed.”

“You don’t miss Detroit?”

“Absolutely not.” Washington’s face sobered. “You don’t know how lucky you are to be living in God’s country here.” He held his chin, and paused. “I used to live in a nice neighborhood. We had a real community, block parties and everything.” He leveled his gaze on Robert. “By the time I retired and moved, we had to have iron bars on the windows, and too many nights my sleep was spoiled by gunfire.” He shook his head. “Crack junkies and rappers.”

“That’s too bad.” Robert didn’t know what else to say and tried imagining the transformation of the neighborhood.

“The suburbs weren’t much better.” Washington punctuated his words with a dismissive wave and traced patterns with his fork in the barbecue sauce left on his paper plate. “Less crime, but the people, were -” He searched for the words. “Well, they were always in a hurry. I guess that’s the way the world is now.” He looked up at Robert. “Too rushed to enjoy simple things and too busy to be civil.”

Robert nodded recognition. During his last trip to Richmond, he had seen the same problem. People too hurried to extend the little courtesies he experienced every day in Guilford; greeting each other or stopping for a spell to chew the fat with a friend. Nobody had the time for that any more. At least that’s how it looked in the cities. Robert felt disappointed that the disease had reached as far as Richmond, probably every sizable Southern city, people hustling like Yankees, everything speeded up. In Guilford, people still waved at each other and at perfect strangers.

“You know.” Washington cracked a grin. “I can see it.”

“Yessir.” Robert nodded again. “It’s been a spell since I stopped to think about it.

Washington asked about the fishing, if it was still any good in the small reservoir south of town where the Corps of Engineers dammed Thatcher’s Creek in 1938. Robert wasn’t sure because he hadn’t been there in a long while, and that led to an invitation to join Washington and young Tony on trip next Saturday to find out. They lingered at the picnic table for close to an hour, talking about Guilford and their experiences in Korea. Both men answered Tony’s questions about the war. Robert served in an artillery battery and Washington had been a truck driver in the ordnance company that delivered ammo to Robert’s unit. Their lives appeared to have crossed back and forth over the years, first over Thatcher’s Creek in Guilford, later by Chosin in Korea, and now at Appomattox.

By the time they cleaned up the picnic table and shook hands in the parking lot, Robert felt as though he had become reunited with an old friend from his grammar school days. He noted the fishing date and realized that he hadn’t gone fishing at the reservoir since he left for Charlottesville to study law at the university.

Robert left his windows rolled down on the drive home and enjoyed the scenery that Washington had made such a fuss about. He’d been around it for most of his life and had almost stopped noticing the beauty of the undulating hills bordered by woods. He parked in his driveway, then rolled under the roof of the carport, remembering Washington’s admonishment to protect the paint from too much sun. By the time he told Louise about his new friend, Anthony Washington, he had entirely forgotten that he was black.

More about Guilford, Virginia and CROSSING THATCHER’S CREEK.