Long Way Home by Bill Barich Page A

civilians tagged after the army, keen to witness the spectacle. They carried picnic baskets, certain they’d be celebrating a quick surrender or a rout. Yet Confederate general P. G. T. Beauregard lay in wait at Bull Run with twenty-two thousand men, soon to be joined by ten thousand more men from the Shenandoah Valley.
    On July 21, at daybreak, Union soldiers fired on an enemy stronghold. The Confederates retreated, consolidating their forces on Henry House Hill. McDowell tried to press his advantage, but his green volunteers lacked the will and experience, and they withdrew in the late afternoon. Weary and disheartened, they were enveloped in a melee on the road back to Washington. The civilian observers also were racing from the scene in their carriages. Caught up in the chaos, the soldiers lost any hint of discipline and fled in a panic.
    The armies met at Manassas again in August 1862, although they were composed of hardened veterans by then. Second Bull Run lasted for three days, elevated the Confederacy to the pinnacle of its power, and left another thirty-three hundred men dead.
    INDIAN SUMMER. It came out of nowhere with a blast of heat and light that banished the clouds. On Route 211 past Warrenton, I drove up and down, up and down through the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, hooked on the pastoral sublime.
    There were lush green meadows board-fenced for horses or cattle, dry stone walls, farm ponds stocked with bass and catfish, and dragonflies on the wing. The Rappahannock River sparkled in the sun. After a tour of Manassas, I felt grateful for the gift of such a splendid afternoon. This was Barack Obama territory if you trusted the signs, twice as many as McCain’s. Though George W. Bush won Virginia in 2004, most pollsters judged it a toss-up in 2008.
    APPLES AND COLD CIDER read another sign, this one for Williams Orchard in Flint Hill off the two-lane road to Front Royal, once known as Helltown because of the rowdies who tore it up while chasing after whores and whiskey.
    The road, all tight curves, afforded fine views over a valley after each switchback. The orchard was at the base of a steep incline. Apple trees heavy with fruit stretched in every direction. The scent of ripeness, brought on by the warmth, was almost dizzying.
    Two women were hoisting bushels of apples into their truck. They looked like members of a commune, muscular and not fussy about their clothes, ready to dig post holes or string up barbed wire, servants of the functional. Maybe they’d be baking pies for the followers of a little-known swami later on. Flint Hill, this part of Rappahannock County—my California antennae twitched. I sensed the presence of seekers.
    In a weathered barn, there were more apples in baskets—Yorks, Romes, McIntoshes, and Jonathans—along with cool cider in bottles and jugs. Farm machinery was stored in the dark interior, where spiderwebs hung from the beams. When a pup rushed up to sniff my leg, a woman shouted, “Andy!” and the pup dashed away to sniff at something or somebody else.
    The woman’s name was Liz. She ran the stand for the Williams family and wondered how she could help me.
    â€œWell, I’d like some apples,” I said, stating the obvious.
    â€œWe’ve got all kinds. What’s your pleasure?”
    â€œSomething I haven’t tasted before.”
    She selected a bright yellow apple with a pink blush. Using a pocket knife, she cut a wedge and held it out on the blade.
    â€œTry that. It’s a Virginia Gold. They’re a cross between an Albermarle Pippin and a Golden Delicious.”
    The apple, very crisp, managed to be both tart and sweet. I bought half a peck for a mere five bucks and felt as if I’d just picked the Williams’s pocket. They’d been farming the orchard for more than seventy-five years, and also sold vegetables and natural beef.
    Liz bagged my Virginia Golds. “They’ll last straight through the