Two years ago this fall, on a short visit to
Providence, R.I., I came upon one of the neatest little jewels in New England:
the Rhode Island State House. I
didn’t expect to find such a grand, stylish capitol in the smallest state in
the Union—though I would have if I’d known beforehand that it was designed by
the prestigious New York architectural firm of McKim, Mead and White in
1891-94.
But the surprises started coming at me as soon as I
entered the building. On my left, in the North Portico of a structure meant for
the peaceful debate and management of opposing ideas, was an imposing
representation of what could happen when civility and compromise are no longer
the order of the day: a brass cannon taken from the turning point of America’s
bloodiest, most fratricidal war.
The cannon, known as "The Napoleon" during its lifetime, was last fired 154 years ago today, at the
Battle of Gettysburg, and consequently is better remembered today as the "Gettysburg Gun." You can better understand why it was never used again
when you notice the large cannonball stuck in its muzzle.
The cannon went out
of service at the worst possible time: early in the afternoon, Rhode Island’s Battery B unit was gearing ready for its midday meal when Robert E. Lee
ordered the largest artillery bombardment witnessed in the Western Hemisphere
to that time, meant to weaken and confuse Union lines prior to “Pickett’s
Charge.”
The fourth gun of Battery B had sustained minor
damage from two prior hits when another shell exploded. Two soldiers tending to
the gun were killed, and a dent to the muzzle from the explosion necessitated
that the gun be moved to the rear.
Early on, Gettysburg assumed such legendary
proportions that anything associated with the battle became objects of
curiosity, even reverence. So it proved to be with Battery B’s cannon, which
remained on exhibit in Washington for around a decade after the battle, when it
was finally moved back to Rhode Island.
To my knowledge, it has left the State
House on two occasions since then: in August 1962, when it was taken away for
24 hours to remove two and a half pounds of aging, highly dangerous black gunpowder
that had been discovered, and in 1988, when it was brought back to the
battlefield for the 125th anniversary of its last use.
The sight of the “Gettysburg Gun” filled me with
wonder when I saw it. Since then, this relic has only accrued a meaning I
could never have imagined at the time.
Like the Civil War and the Battle of Gettysburg, the
turmoil surrounding Rhode Island’s Gettyburg Gun was the product of confusion,
error, and a system that unexpectedly underperformed. Its outcome demonstrated
that a democratic republic is also a near-run thing, a fragile point to be
defended even when matters seem most hopeless, dependent on multiple people of
judgment and heroism ready to rush to contain the damage from a breach.
