By Kurt Kennedy
Since I’m writing about the event, I retraced the route of Abraham Lincoln’s funeral train from Washington City to Springfield, Illinois, in the summer of 2010. As best I could, anyway. At times, I was traveling on the same right-of-way that the bodies of Lincoln and his young son Willie did in the spring of 1865. For other legs of the trip in the Rust Belt, I had to settle for Greyhound getting me from stop to stop. The only rails between Cleveland and Columbus, and Columbus and Indianapolis were owned by CSX and Norfolk Southern, respectively, and were for commercial freight only. It was against their company policies to allow unauthorized passengers, even a little ole creative researcher like myself. But, it was fun giving that a shot (didn’t have it in me to chance the consequences of a hobo-style ride) and I got what I was looking for: a feel for the land that was traveled over, a sense for the exhaustion the Lincoln funeral train riders began to feel, and sites and experiences I could use in the novel.
This is the first entry in a monthly blog where I’ll recount the trip. I envision a travelogue type of thing mixed with an experiential-researching-of-what-you’re-writing type thing, with focus kept on writing about—and writers of—historical fiction. (Writers of other types of stuff and fans of story, you know that categories are just categories and that writing is writing, so this is for y’all, too. But, the context here will be historical fiction.) We’ll start with this basic goal and see how it grows from month to month. Along the way I’ll talk quite a bit about the Laying Lincoln Down graphic novel (forthcoming from Wicker Park Press), and the business side of this dual prose/graphic historical fiction project. The structure will be this:
There were twelve principal cities where elaborate ceremonies were held for Abraham Lincoln and his body lay in state so a million Americans could view him for the last time: Washington D.C. (called Washington City at the time), Baltimore, Harrisburg, PA, Philadelphia, New York, Albany, Buffalo, Cleveland, Columbus, Indianapolis, Chicago, and Springfield, where his remains…remain today. Each month, I’ll talk about my visit to each of these progressive stops, with the aim of having you loyal readers be a fountain of funeral train facts come April 15, 2015, the 150th “anniversary” (wish there was a better term for this context—“commemoration,” perhaps) of Lincoln’s assassination. ‘Check your math, Kurt. Twelve months from now is only March 2015,’ you’re saying. Yes. I went somewhere first that’s important to my subject, and that ended up being important to the novel, but is not on the train route. Read on.
To start this five-week-long journey, because I was out east anyhow, because my good friend who’s also a writer Chris Terry is from there and got me the hook-ups, and because you can’t get anymore “Civil War,” I spent a week in the Confederate capital of Richmond, Virginia. Before I visited Richmond, and for several weeks after this trip, I did not know that I would set some of the novel there. I should have, I suppose, but it just didn’t occur to me earlier. That’s a real testament to visiting locations as part of your historical writing research. Having memories and photos of where things were located during the war was the fuel for writing about Richmond. Standing on the bluff where the Chimborazo Hospital once stood was the basis for setting a significant scene there. Same with the daytrip I took to Appomattox, and down the Peninsula, and other places I set scenes in or at. And, it simply allowed me to mention things like tightly packed brick homes, things that help authenticate. So, go to the places you’re writing about, not just because the images in your head will improve your story and help it along, but because you’ll probably get a better feel for your topic.
People today—Virginians especially, I think—still have strong personal connections with the Civil War. When the cheery, hospitable tour guide at the Confederate White House (which is actually gray and was called the Executive Mansion during the war, as was the White House in D.C.) invited us to ask questions, I asked if the fire at the closing of the war reached the home. It’s just over a mile northeast of the James River and out of the industrial district. She appreciated the question and explained that it did not spread that far, but she was obviously emotional about the topic. She expressed anger, in words and tone, over the history that was lost due to what she considered an uncalled-for act by the Union Army. (I’m not going to get into it here, and I certainly was not going to bring up at that moment but some histories speculate the fire was started before the Yankees entered the city.) This gave me insight into the sensibilities of a Southern citizen, just as importantly as and with a more human touch than the towering statues of Jackson, Stuart, Davis, and Lee along Monument Ave gave me into the grandness of the concept of the Confederacy. (There’s also a statue of Arthur Ash surrounded by children. It didn’t give me insight into the Confederacy, but I found the irony in it that many contemporary locals do.)
Richmond—on account of what had happened there a couple weeks previous and because the April 1865 citizenry largely despised Abraham Lincoln—was not part of the funeral train route. But I used the opportunity of being out east to go there and it gave life to so many sections of my book. I’m going back in a couple of weeks and am excited about bringing back some bits to enhance Laying Lincoln Down.
Go there, writers. Wherever or whatever type of place you’re writing about, go there.
From “1862” section of Laying Lincoln Down
“American Independence Day, the Fourth of July, still belongs to us Southerners,” President Jefferson Davis pronounced proudly from the low front steps of his three-storied Executive Mansion that faced Clay Street in northeast Richmond, “just as much as it always has belonged to us. Virginia saw great action in the Revolutionary conflict as well, so it is most certainly a Southern holiday.”
The shoulder-to-shoulder crowd on the brick sidewalks and street clapped and whistled for the smoothed-faced, tall gentleman standing under the modest, pillared canopy of his two-story gray house.
It struck Harry that this president’s home was much more a very nice home and less the “Mansion” that the Lincoln family occupied in Washington. He stood under a tree across from the house but the multitude of people made him feel the midday heat as if he were not shaded. Joseph Alexander stood next to him and clapped with the crowd.
“And General Lee—“
The crowd erupted in cheers at the mention of the great native son’s name. Davis gave two victorious pumps of his fist in the air, then he signaled the people to quiet, and they did.
“And General Lee, three days ago, after a battle lasting seven days, by his successful repulsion of the Army of the Potomac just a few miles from where we stand—” Clapping came but he raised his voice and continued over it. “…Has secured Richmond, given new life to our cause, and birthed a deeper meaning for Independence Day in the Confederate States of America.”
“Hoorays” and “bravos” were shouted.
“Onward to Washington!” one man yelled out, bringing about a further spike in the uproar.
A small marching band kicked up Dixieland. Davis opened his door, turned and waved to the crowd one more time, then entered.
“Hip, hip, hooray for President Davis and General Lee!” someone else called out.
“Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!” everyone repeated.
Fireworks began exploding overhead and the band switched to playing Yankee Doodle, stretching and bending the notes so that everyone recognized the mockery and laughed. There was much smiling and jovial conversation as they all dispersed.
