(Great-Great Uncle Patrick, the loveable rogue of the 10th Tennessee (Irish). Photo Griffin Archives.)

One of the things that appeals to me most about Refuge Farm is the sound of the night, which is to say, not much of it, except the barking of the dogs up the road and the sound of the trains.

I have resolved to stay out of the sickening mess here in Washington. It makes me crazy. Apparently it does the President, too. The proper way to address the budget cliff is to pack the dog and the girls and the wife on Air Force One and decamp for Kailua on the lovely island of O’ahu in the mid-Pacific.

According to the White House, the First Family will be out there from the 17th of December until the 6th of January. I am going to take this just as seriously, though I confess that I have no big jet on hot standby in case I feel the need to strike some grand bargain or another.

My bargains are likely to be much smaller. The politics are a little slower paced down in Culpeper. The big controversy is about the town seal. See, the Culpeper Minutemen were raised there under the big oak tree in 1775, and marched off to fight the Brits in Tidewater.

Their symbol was this:

Modern Town Fathers have decided this is too close to the Gadsden Flag, the one pre-empted by the Tea Party. They would like something more tourist friendly, but frankly, I have to say that the current one is about as welcoming as I want to be.

The Town Fathers say there are too many mottos on the Minuteman flag- they wind up as too small to read, but I feel that if you are close enough to read them, you are just too close.

The mournful whistle of the Amtrak sounds at the grade crossing over at Winston, the seat of the great estate that once occupied the acreage around Refuge Farm, and the echo of it carries across the fields and overgrown pastures.

I turn in bed, under the eiderdown, always reminded that my Irish forebears laid the original track of the Alexandria and Orange Railroad. That led, in time, to Gordonsville and the junction with the Fredericksburg & Gordonsville line, leading from Fredericksburg, via Orange Courthouse to Charlottesville, where it connects with the Chesapeake & Ohio R.R. and the way west.

I don’t know when the family made the big turn across the mountains, but the A&O started construction in 1850, two years after my Irish arrived in Alexandria. By 1861 the family, less my great great-great-grandfather (who perished under the summer sun swinging a hammer) was in Nashville, the great rail and river hub of the upper South.

And thence into the late unpleasantness between the States.

After encountering a stocky Union General named Ulysses Grant, Great Uncle Patrick’s unit was captured and his Colonel dispatched to a stint in the POW camp at Fort Warren, part of the island defenses of Boston after the defeat of the 10th Tennessee at Ft. Donelson.

Great-great-Uncle Patrick said this: “At Dover we helped to build Fort Donelson. Later, after the Sons of Erin became Company H, 10th Tennessee Infantry, we went down on the Tennessee River and built Fort Henry. At Fort Henry there was no whisky on our side of the river, but across the stretch of water was Madame Peggy’s saloon. There was some mystery as to where the beverage she sold was obtained, but this only added to her popularity.”

Better Madame Peggy’s than Fort Warren, but released on parole, the Irish were all ready to reorganize and get back in the fight.

I need to follow the tracks some time, down to Gordonsville and and see what they saw, walking south and then west. I would like to tour some of the places my Irish spent their time, 1861-65, in front of Vicksburg and at Shiloh, and Raymond, where Uncle Patrick cradled his dead Colonel.

I would like to see if Peggy’s place is still there, or at least a reasonable facsimile dive bar on the Rebel side of the river.

Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com