THE DEMON OF UNREST: A Saga of Hubris, Heartbreak, and Heroism at the Dawn of the Civil War, by Erik Larson
The Civil War is one hell of a drug. It’s plentiful and Main Street-legal, but can induce hallucinatory visions when mixed with inflammatory substances. “I’m so attracted to seeing it,” former President Donald J. Trump confessed at a rally this past Jan. 6, three years after his “Big Lie” inspired followers to storm the Capitol — a feat the Southern Confederacy and its campaign to preserve slavery were unable to accomplish, even as the effort left more than 600,000 people dead in its wake.
In “The Demon of Unrest,” Erik Larson recounts being “appalled” but also “riveted” by Jan. 6 and by “today’s political discord, which, incredibly, has led some benighted Americans to whisper of secession and civil war.”
When Larson, the reigning king of Dad History, drops a new book on the Civil War a month and a half before Father’s Day in a pivotal election year, he knows what he’s doing. Sort of. “The Demon of Unrest” is Larson’s first book on the Civil War. And his green horns show.
Ostensibly, it mirrors his best-selling books — among them, “The Splendid and the Vile” and “The Devil in the White City” — with the same pulpy, black-and-white cover treatment and bulky page count, satisfying the collect-them-all, size-matters kind of reader.
The drama unfolds between Abraham Lincoln’s election in November 1860 and the following April, when Confederate troops in Charleston, S.C., shelled Fort Sumter and started the Civil War. During those tense five months, Lincoln hoped, despite a pro-slavery mob’s attempt to stop Congress from tallying the vote and decades of physical violence within the Senate and House chambers, that the war might narrowly be avoided.
At the start the outgoing president, James Buchanan, is maddeningly passive in the face of cabinet resignations and seceding states, including South Carolina, where Confederates would see federal forces arriving at Fort Sumter as nothing short of a foreign incursion. “They ought to hang him,” an astonished Lincoln privately remarks, bewildered by Buchanan’s talk of surrendering federal forts.
Publicly, Lincoln maintains a determined yet conciliatory posture even as Larson’s other hero, Maj. Robert Anderson, a former enslaver and the fort’s commander, is under siege by thousands of better-armed Confederate soldiers and running out of supplies. Anderson and his 80 or so men pray for the best while cornered by the worst.
The stage is set. “I invite you now to step into the past,” Larson writes, and he means it. He wants you not just immersed, but engulfed. A Larson book is like the Dead Sea: The extraordinarily dense level of details — “On the stillest nights, at 9 o’clock, Major Anderson could hear the great bells in the distant witch-cap spire of St. Michael’s Church, bastion of Charleston society where planters displayed rank by purchasing pews” — usually allows readers to float on his narrative without much effort.
I tried my best not to swim, but on more than one occasion, I almost drowned from exertion, especially in the incredibly banal final stretch. And still there was something lacking in the book’s 565 pages: Nary a Black person, free or enslaved, is presented as more than a fleeting, one-dimensional figure. Frederick Douglass, a leading abolitionist and standard of histories of the era, warrants no more than a mention.
Black people are primarily nameless victims of an antagonistic labor system that’s causing a political crisis among white Americans. At one point, to differentiate this near monolith, Larson employs the term “escape-minded Blacks,” a curious turn of phrase that suggests there were “bondage-minded Blacks.”
The flattening is all the more noticeable because so many other characters are given shape. Larson offers a cradle-to-coffin biography of the South Carolina congressman-turned-Confederate James Hammond. Lengthy passages on Hammond’s “five-way affair” with (read: sexual abuse of) four teenage nieces are followed by a short, unnervingly euphemistic account of the enslaved women he (and his son) raped and impregnated: Hammond made Sally Johnson “his mistress,” and when her daughter Louisa turned 12, he “made her his mistress as well.”
Larson’s magnolias-under-the-moonlight word choice is inadequate. Sally and Louisa were damned to Hammond’s forced labor camps, along with more than 300 enslaved people who “had a penchant for dying.” But they got Christmas off, Larson notes; Hammond “held a barbecue” and, on one occasion, “gave a calico frock to every female who had given birth.”
“Cotton is king,” Hammond declared in 1858. The phrase would come to epitomize the newly minted Confederacy’s misguided confidence in both its economic domination and the war. The greatest echo of the present day in “The Demon of Unrest” may be Larson’s newcomer ego, a swaggering disregard for the difference between the shopworn and the truly complex that leads straight into the pitfalls of nostalgia and hubris.
At his Jan. 6 anniversary rally, a century and a half after the Civil War ended, Trump suggested that Lincoln could have negotiated his way out of the conflict and avoided the killing — but only at great personal cost. “If he negotiated it,” Trump observed, “you probably wouldn’t even know who Abraham Lincoln was.” What better reason could there have been to fight?
THE DEMON OF UNREST: A Saga of Hubris, Heartbreak, and Heroism at the Dawn of the Civil War | By Erik Larson | Crown | 565 pp. | $35
