Rebel Yell Quotes

Saba! I'm afeared! cries Emmi. If you are, you ain't no sister of mine! I shout. Come at me agin! I ain't afeared of nuthin! She yells. That's more like it.

We ain't got time fer you to yell at me or fer me to tell you everythin that's happened, so I'm jest gonna cover the main points real quick an then I'm gonna kiss you, he says.

Wait!” Alex yells up to the driver. “Stop! Stop the car!” Up close, it’s beautiful. Two stories tall. He can’t imagine how somebody was able to put together something like this so fast. It’s a mural of himself and Henry, facing each other, haloed by a bright yellow sun, depicted as Han and Leia. Henry in all white, starlight in his hair. Alex dressed as a scruffy smuggler, a blaster at his hip. A royal and a rebel, arms around each other. He snaps a photo on his phone, and fingers shaking, types out a tweet: Never tell me the odds.

Ross said, “They play even during an attack. Not very good. But inspiring. Have you heard the Rebel yell?” Fremantle nodded. “Godawful sound. I expect they learned it from Indians.

To be a Southerner, or to live Southern, is to feel, well, something special even in the quiet, something fine in itself after all those rebel yells and fight songs have finally faded into silence.

The time for war has not yet come, but it will come, and that soon. And when it does come, my advice is to draw the sword and throw away the scabbard.

Scoot, scoot, SCOOT!” I yelled at David. “I AM SCOOTING!” he shouted back. Then

Education isn’t something your professors make for you. It’s something you make for yourself.

Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis,” Douglas commented. Times change, and we change with them.

Symptomatic of this rural-urban identity crisis is our eager embrace of a recently imposed divide: the Red States and the Blue States. That color map comes to us with the suggestion that both coasts are populated by educated civil libertarians, while the vast middle and south are criss-crossed with the studded tracks of ATVs leaving a trail of flying beer cans and rebel yells. Okay, I'm exaggerating a little. But I certainly sense a bit of that when urban friends ask me how I can stand living here, "so far from everything?" (When I hear this question over the phone, I'm usually looking out the window at a forest, a running creek, and a vegetable garden, thinking: Define everything.)

never take counsel of your fears.

He made disgusted noises every time I touched him, so I fell entirely against him. He yelled and I ended up on the floor. It was not my most well-thought-out plan.

Then above the confused sounds Stuart Tarleton's voice rose, in an exultant shout, 'Yee-aay-ee!' as if he were on the hunting field. And she heard for the first time, without knowing it, the Rebel yell.

There was a loud shuffling above. A line of redcoats took their position at the edge of the ravine and aimed down at the rebels. "Present!" the British officer screamed to his men. "Present!" yelled the American officer. His men brought the butts of their muskets up to their shoulders and sighted down the long barrels, ready to shoot and kill. I pressed my face into the earth, unable to plan a course of escape. My mind would not be mastered and thought only of the wretched, lying, foul, silly girl who was the cause of everything. I thought of Isabel and I missed her. "FIRE!

Much of this behavior grew out of his faith, his desire to be uncompromisingly truthful at all times, and his very particular sense of Christian courtesy. He explained his refusal to voice disapproval of others by saying, “It is quite contrary to my nature to keep silence where I cannot but disapprove. Indeed I may as well confess that it would often give me real satisfaction to express just what I feel, but this would be to disobey the divine precept [judge not lest ye be judged], and I dare not do

On page 86, "This wasn't like Jim. Always before, the window slid up, Jim's head popped out, ripe with yells, secret hissings, giggles, riots and rebel charges." This quote shows that something isn't right, that this isn't what Will was expecting of Jim. This quote can foreshadow of what could happen later in the book.

I realized that sexism was telling me to stay home and not par pate in the larger world. "Dance to records by yourself in your room would say. "Stay at home and read alone!" it would yell. I decided I gonna do everything in my power to make Bikini Kill shows a brief prieve from sexism, even if it was imperfect and fleeting.

As an instructor, he was patient, forbearing, and tolerant of mistakes, provided his students were trying diligently to learn. Jackson

The leader who tries to change the group’s spirit directly—yelling, demanding, disciplining—actually plays into the teenage dynamic and reinforces the desire to rebel.

Some of them screamed for locks of his hair, to which the blushing general replied, “Really, ladies, this is the first time I was ever surrounded by the enemy!

You know, you can pretend all you want, but I know you wanted to kiss me just now. You shouldn’t have been a pussy and just done it.” Then she shut the door and yelled, “Good night, bossman.

Wallace seemed to draw strength from the restiveness in the air. “He has a bugle voice of venom,” a commentator from the New Republic wrote, “and a gut knowledge of the prejudices of his audience.” A Newsweek correspondent covering the Wallace rallies, noting “the heat, the rebel yells, the flags waving,” and the legions of “psychologically threadbare” supporters, declared that Wallace “speaks to the unease everyone senses in America.

To be sure, late that afternoon, Union soldiers drifted into the Confederate camp, and soon knots of blue- and gray-clad men dotted the hills around Appomattox Court House; bullets were indeed replaced by backslaps, the rebel yell with a hearty Southern drawl, war fervor with the first hints of war nostalgia, unbridled hatred with nascent relief, and, by the next day, West Point mini-reunions were even breaking out at the McLean farmhouse. But

Stonewall Jackson was master of all he surveyed. Two Union forces were withdrawing from his front. There was a certain beautiful symmetry to it. The campaign, which started with a single enemy army pursuing Jackson southward through the valley, would end with two beaten Union armies withdrawing from him in a northerly direction. A week later, Jackson advised his mapmaker, Hotchkiss, to 'never take counsel of your fears.' A person who followed such advice would be doomed to a short life.

Jackson went happily into the field anyway, calmly picking and eating the ripe fruit even though, as Douglas observed, “the bullets seemed to be as plentiful as blackberries.” At one point he turned to his increasingly anxious aide and, with a large, juicy berry between his thumb and finger, asked Douglas casually “in what part of the body I preferred being shot.” Douglas, nervously handing the general berries while minié balls whistled overhead and buried themselves in the trees around them, replied that while his first choice was to be hit in his clothing, he preferred anyplace other than his face or joints. Jackson said he had “the old-fashioned horror of being shot in the back and so great was his prejudice on the subject that he often found himself turning his face in the direction from which the bullets came.” Just then a bullet thudded into a sapling near their heads, and Jackson, with a “vague remark about getting his horse killed,” reluctantly left the feast.18

Rebel Yell" Last night a little dancer came dancin' to my door Last night a little angel came pumping on the floor She said "Come on baby I got a license for love And if it expires pray help from above" Because In the midnight hour she cried- "more, more, more" With a rebel yell she cried- "more, more, more" In the midnight hour babe- "more, more, more" With a rebel yell- "more, more, more" More, more, more. She don't like slavery, she won't sit and beg But when I'm tired and lonely she sees me to bed What set you free and brought you to me babe What set you free I need you here by me Because In the midnight hour she cried- "more, more, more" With a rebel yell she cried- "more, more, more" In the midnight hour babe- "more, more, more" With a rebel yell- "more, more, more" He lives in his own heaven Collects it to go from the seven eleven Well he's out all night to collect a fare Just so long, just so long it don't mess up his hair. I walked the world with you, babe A thousand miles with you I dried your tears of pain, babe A million times for you I'd sell my soul for you babe For money to burn with you I'd give you all, and have none, babe Just to, just to, just to, to have you here by me Because In the midnight hour she cried- "more, more, more" With a rebel yell she cried- "more, more, more" In the midnight hour babe- "more, more, more" With a rebel yell she cried "more, more, more" More, more, more. Oh yeah little baby She want more More, more, more, more, more. Oh yeah little angel She want more More, more, more, more.

I yelled "Revolution girl style now!" before "Double Dare Ya" like I'd been doing live and reassured myself that the session was meant to take a snapshot of our songs, not to make them sound perfect. Maybe being sloppy would inspire other girls to start bands.

She’s been mistreated and she knows I’m a violent man. She’s terrified of me…” “And yet?” Mary prompted. “She yelled at me,” he said incredulously. “It’s been decades since anyone dared … she told me I couldna issue her orders, and that she was a woman with free and independent will. She called me an overbearing brute.” “Oh, Lord.” She hid a laughing smile behind her fan. “What did ye say to that?” “I kissed her. And she kissed me back.” “Marry her, Liam,” she ordered, snapping the lace fan closed. “As soon as you can. Tomorrow if possible.

The great and complicated political reasons for secession, thundered about in Congress and in the state legislatures, were not their reasons, which were more like those expressed by a captive Confederate soldier, who was not a slaveholder, to his puzzled Union captors. “I’m fighting because you’re down here,” he said.30

You speak of your temptations. God withdraws His sensible presence from us to try our faith. When a cloud comes between you and the sun, do you fear that the sun will never appear again? I am well satisfied that you are a child of God, and that you will be saved in heaven, there forever to dwell with the ransomed of the Lord. So you must not doubt. . . . Jesus says: “My yoke is easy and My burden light,” and this is true, if we but follow Him in the prompt discharge of every duty . . . we should always seek by prayer to be taught our duty. If temptations are presented, you must not think that you are committing sin in consequence of having a sinful thought. Even the Saviour was presented with the thought of worshipping Satan. . . . Don’t doubt His eternal love for you.3

There is no way to know Jackson’s thought process as he prepared to engage the Union army in front of him. He knew very little about it and certainly he had no idea that, at the moment he ordered his men to advance, he was actually outnumbered five to one. But it was characteristic of the man that his means of determining the enemy’s strength was to hit the enemy in the face and then see what happened. Typical, too, was his impatience to fight. As at Port Republic, he chose to attack before his full force had arrived.

He's on the way back to the airstrip when he sees it, emblazoned on the side of a brick building, a shock of color against a gray street. "Wait!" Alex yells up to the driver. "Stop! Stop the car!" Up close, it's beautiful. Two stories tall. He can't imagine how somebody was able to put together something like this so fast. It's a mural of himself and Henry, facing each other, haloed by a bright yellow sun, depicted as Han and Leia. Henry in all white, starlight in his hair. Alex dressed as a scruffy smuggler, a blaster at his hip. A royal and a rebel, arms around each other. He snaps a photo on his phone, and fingers shaking, types out a tweet: Never tell me the odds.

In the morning we shed our blue sheep’s clothing. Our border shirts came out of satchels and onto our backs. We preferred this means of dress for it was more flatout and honest. The shirts were large with pistol pockets, and usually colored red or dun. Many had been embroidered with ornate stitching by loving women some were blessed enough to have. Mine was plain, but well broken in. I can think of no more chilling a sight than that of myself all astride my big bay horse with six or eight pistols dangling from my saddle, my rebel locks aloft on the breeze and a whoopish yell on my lips. When my awful costume was multiplied by that of my comrades, we stopped feint hearts just by our mode of dread stylishness.

Then as Anna listened another sound began to rise within the first. It began as a low keening, like the wind in a bottle tree, almost indiscernible amid the guns. Yet it was there, and it grew and grew, gaining strength and timbre until suddenly a new note broke away and was taken up: a high weird quavering like nothing that Anna had ever heard, that peopled the smoke with an army of mourning phantoms. Anna had heard the men talk of this, too—the uncanny demon cry of the Rebel army going into the attack—and now here it was for real, echoing across violence and death for the last time in a wild crescendo that seemed to peak and yet peak again: descanting blood, crying lost youth and the loss of all dreams. One last time it shrilled out of the rolling smoke, then collapsed all at once into a maelstrom of voices—the deep snarling utterance of thousands of men in hell.

You’ve seen the footage.” “She didn’t know what she was doing. None of us could follow Beetee’s plan. You can see her trying to figure out what to do with that wire,” Peeta snaps back. “All right. It just looks suspicious,” says Caesar. “As if she was part of the rebels’ plan all along.” Peeta’s on his feet, leaning in to Caesar’s face, hands locked on the arms of his interviewer’s chair. “Really? And was it part of her plan for Johanna to nearly kill her? For that electric shock to paralyze her? To trigger the bombing?” He’s yelling now. “She didn’t know, Caesar! Neither of us knew anything except that we were trying to keep each other alive!” Caesar places his hand on Peeta’s chest in a gesture that’s both self-protective and conciliatory. “Okay, Peeta, I believe you.” “Okay.” Peeta withdraws from Caesar, pulling back his hands, running them through his hair, mussing his carefully styled blond curls.

soldier named James A. Miller, of Harpers Ferry, had gotten drunk and shot and wounded his captain. An army court-martial had found him guilty and sentenced him to death by firing squad. Because Jackson was in a position to commute the sentence, a number of pleas for leniency were made to him on Miller’s behalf, including an impassioned one from Jackson’s friend Reverend James Graham. Jackson refused. He upheld the court-martial, and Miller was shot to death by the 2nd Virginia in Winchester on November 6. (It was later learned that Jefferson Davis, more sympathetic than his major general, actually did commute Miller’s sentence, but a messenger bearing his order got drunk and never delivered it.4) The men were learning quickly that, in Jackson’s command, unlike most of the rest of the army, or the army they thought they knew, there would be no bending of the rules. Jackson may have had trouble enforcing discipline in his section room with mischievous, fresh-faced college boys, but he had no trouble doing so in a rough army camp.

The profilers’ plan to coax me out of the woods resembled a comedy skit. During their search of my Cane Creek trailer, the feds had found dozens of books on the Civil War. And interviews with my friends confirmed that I was a bona fide Civil War buff. The profilers looked at all this Civil War “stimuli” and concluded that my hiding in the mountains was a form of role-playing. Starring in my own Civil War fantasy, I was a lone rebel fighting for the Lost Cause, and the task force was a Yankee army out to capture me. To talk On August 16, the task force pulled out of the woods while Bo and his rebels went in. They had to look the part, so the FBI profilers dressed them in white hats with the word “REBEL” stenciled in red letters across the front; and around their neck each rebel wore a Confederate flag bandanna.me into surrendering, they needed some of my rebel comrades to convince me that the war was over and it was time to lay down my arms. Colonel Gritz and his crew were assigned the role of my rebel comrades. They were there to “rescue” me from the Yankee horde. Bo’s band of rebels pitched camp down in Tusquitee, north of the town of Hayesville. Beginning at Bob Allison Campground – the place where I’d abandoned Nordmann’s truck – they worked their way west into the Tusquitee Mountains. They walked the trails, blowing whistles and yelling “Eric, we’re here with Bo Gritz to save you.” They searched for a week. I lost it when I heard on the radio that the profilers had dressed Gritz’s clowns in “REBEL” hats and Confederate flag bandannas. I laughed so hard I think I broke a rib.

You had a right to vent. I was behaving like a mother hen." "A very sweet mother hen with too many chicks." "I promise to back off." He offered her another bite of pizza. "But I can't promise not to worry." "Fair enough." She kept her hand on his. "It's natural to worry.But you have to trust,too." "You know what I've decided?" He plumped up a pillow and stretched out beside her. "You're even more of a rebel than I am." "You think so?" "Yeah." "Next you'll be loaning me your Harley." "I could be persuaded." He linked his fingers with hers. She stared at their joined hands and sighed. "This is nice." "Yeah.I was just thinking the same thing." He leaned his head back and began chuckling. "What's so funny?" "I've been a bear for the past week. I'd have happily snapped off anybody's head who dared to cross me." "I know what you mean.Fortunately, there was nobody around for me to snap at. I had to content myself with yelling at the talking heads on TV." She paused. "How're you feeling now?" He looked over at her. "What a difference a week makes. The thunderstorm's gone. The cloudy skies. The nasty rain. I'm all sunshine and blue skies and sweet-smelling flowers, thanks to you." "Me,too." She set her wine on the nightstand and leaned over to brush a kiss over his mouth. "I'm so glad you're here,Wyatt.This has been the longest week of my life." His arms came around her,gathering her close.Against her lips he whispered, "Speaking of which, you make me weak." "And you make me..." His kiss cut off her words. As they rolled together, one word played over and over in her mind. Content. Wyatt McCord made her feel content. And safe.And absolutely, completely, thoroughly loved.

Nearly all children nowadays were horrible. What was worst of all was that by means of such organizations as the Spies they were systematically turned into ungovernable little savages, and yet this produced in them no tendency whatever to rebel against the discipline of the Party. On the contrary, they adored the Party and everything connected with it. The songs, the processions, the banners, the hiking, the drilling with dummy rifles, the yelling of slogans, the worship of Big Brother—it was all a sort of glorious game to them. All their ferocity was turned outwards, against the enemies of the State, against foreigners, traitors, saboteurs, thought-criminals. It was almost normal for people over thirty to be frightened of their own children.

the long roll called William Wofford’s Georgia brigade to fall in for duty. Orders were issued to fill haversacks with snowballs and form line of battle, and behind its color guards the brigade marched two miles to the camp of Joseph Kershaw’s South Carolina brigade. “We were in line of battle on a hill and Kershaw’s formed and come out to fight us,” Georgian Jim Mobley wrote his brother. “The field officers was on their horses and when they come against us, they come with a hollar! and, Benjamin, Great God, I never saw snow balls fly so in my life.” The order to open fire was given at 100 feet. Charge and countercharge were spirited by the Rebel yell. Combat was hand-to-hand, prisoners were taken. “I tell you it beat anything . . . ,” Mobley exclaimed. “There was 4000 men engaged on both sides, and you know it was something!

0820 Hours, 10 miles West of Howell, Idaho: “Patton, Kap, X-Twins! Up top in five! Let’s go!” yelled a familiar voice from the ladder leading to above ground Idaho. The Northern Cave Complex in Redoubt West was something to behold.

Dirk starts yelling from outside the barn. “Did she say fucking yes or not?” Jackson rolls his eyes, making me laugh even harder. “She said yes,” Jackson yells back. Cheers erupt from outside the barn.

Prove you’re one of us,” the pilot called. “What’s the password we’re using?” A password was something the rebels might use to identify themselves out on the battlefield. It would make sense with everyone moving the same gear around. Zak tightened his grip on his pistol and decided. “I don’t have a password, asshole!” Zak yelled. It was either that or make one up, which the pilot would have obviously caught; also, this felt better. “Good,” was the response from the pilot, followed by another fit of coughing. “I killed the last guy that gave me a password.

Yes, My Queen!” the rebels yelled, diving into battle with no fear in their eyes and my heart swelled as I witnessed the ferocity of my people.

in a war that made a specialty of such changes.

So would a smallish, gaunt sorrel gelding that Jackson acquired for his wife during his Harpers Ferry posting and named Fancy. The horse turned out to have extraordinary endurance; a gentle, rocking gait that Jackson liked; and the ability, later on, to doze peacefully in the middle of the hottest fights. To everyone else in the war the horse was known as Little Sorrel. He became Jackson’s principal mount for the rest of his life.

One particularly successful swimmer was Johnny Weismuller, an American (with Austro-Hungarian ancestry) who won five gold medals over the course of the 1924 and 1928 games. When his sporting career came to an end, he went into acting and starred as Tarzan in twelve films. In 1958 Weismuller was playing a round of golf on the island of Cuba when a small band of rebels attempted to kidnap him. He scared them off by loudly making the Tarzan yell.

he found the general seated on a log, quite motionless, with his eyes closed. His cap, as usual, was pulled down to his nose. Hampton gave Jackson his report and volunteered to lead an advance over his new bridge. To Hampton’s complete amazement, the general did not speak, nor did he even move. He “sat in silence for some time, then rose and walked off in silence.” Jackson later was found prostrate and asleep underneath a tree, in spite of the daylong artillery battle that was screaming overhead. He seemed almost perfectly passive. When Longstreet sent an aide to him asking for his help, Jackson replied that he could do nothing. He later fell into such a deep sleep that his aides had trouble waking him. He fell asleep at dinner with a biscuit between his teeth. When he was awakened, he suddenly seemed to come to his senses, saying, “Now, gentlemen, let us at once to bed, and rise with the dawn, and see if tomorrow we cannot do something.

allow it to interfere with what he

He joined in, giving the best rebel yell his straining lungs could carry.

Captain, my religious belief teaches me to feel as safe in battle as in bed. God has fixed the time for my death. I do not concern myself about that, but to be always ready, no matter when it may overtake me. That is the way all men should live, and then all would be equally brave.”14

I will do nothing to superinduce sleep by putting myself at ease, or making myself more comfortable; if, however, in spite of my resistance I yield to my infirmity, then I deserve to be laughed at, and accept as punishment the mortification I feel.”19

Florida City?” Coleman dropped a Vicodin. “So that’s what that string of motels is called?” Serge nodded. “Actually a funny story. Used to be called Detroit.” Coleman swigged a pint of Rebel Yell. “Now you’re making fun of me because I’m wrecked.” “Swear to God. You can look it up,” said Serge. “I wouldn’t shit you.” “I know,” said Coleman. “I’m your favorite turd.” “And naming it Detroit wasn’t even an accident, like the other times when two pioneer families set up shop in the sticks and there’s no one else around to stop them, and they’re chugging moonshine by the campfire, ‘What should we call this place?’ ‘Fuck it, I already spent enough effort today running from wild pigs,’ and then you end up with a place called Toad Suck, Arkansas—you can look that up, too. Except modern-day Florida City started as an ambitious land development with hard-sell advertising and giant marketing geniuses behind the project. Then they had the big meeting to concoct a name: ‘I got it! What do people moving to Florida really want? To be in Michigan!

Will you follow me back to where the fighting is going on?” The men—one hundred of them—responded with a resounding yes. Now Bee pointed to his left, up the slope toward the pine woods on the edge of Henry Hill. “Yonder stands Jackson like a stone wall,” he said. “Let’s go to his assistance.”16

One of these bright spits was the homecoming of General J. Bryan Grimes. To quote the August 19, 1880, issue of the Tarboro Southerner, the general was “a brave officer, a hard fighter, a trusted leader of General Lee and emblazoned North Carolina’s history with glory and heroism. He participated in all the important battles fought in Virginia and surrendered at Appomattox. It was there, when the negotiations for the surrender had been inaugurated, a charge and rebel yell was heard at the front. General Lee turned to an aide and asked, ‘Who is that charging?’ ‘General Grimes’ Division of North Carolinians,’ was the reply. General Lee exclaimed: ‘God bless the North Carolinians—they are the first and last in every charge!

Yes I enjoyed flying on government planes and helos, but not enough to stay in the military and remain government property for twenty years. Not for the sake of a pension that might or might not ever be paid. Or if it was paid, might be paid in IOUs or ration cards or whatever paper confetti they decided to dole out to the veterans in the future.

No time. Art Teacher was behind him. Myron slid to the side and threw a roundhouse right. Art Teacher ducked it, but Myron was ready. He stopped mid-punch and looped his arm around the man’s neck. Myron had him in a headlock. But now, with a grotesque rebel yell, Ascot leapt toward Myron. Tightening his grip on the neck, Myron aimed a mule kick. Ascot let it land on his chest. He made his body soft and rolled with the blow, holding on to Myron’s leg. Myron lost his balance. Art Teacher managed to free himself then. He threw a knife hand, aiming for Myron’s throat. Myron tucked so that the blow hit his chin. It rattled his teeth. Ascot held on to Myron’s leg. Myron tried to kick him off. Art Teacher was laughing now. The front door burst open again. Myron prayed it was Win. It wasn’t. Dominick Rochester arrived. He was out of breath. Myron wanted to call out a warning to Mrs. Seiden, but that was when a pain unlike any other he had felt ripped through him. Myron let loose a blood-curdling howl. He looked down at his leg. Ascot had his head lowered. He was biting Myron’s leg. Myron screamed again, the sound mixing in with the laughter and cheers coming from Art Teacher. “Go, Jeb! Woo-hoo!” Myron kept kicking, but Ascot dug in deeper, holding on, growling like a terrier. The pain was excruciating, all-encompassing. Panic filled Myron. He stamped down with his free leg. Ascot held on with his teeth. Myron kicked harder, finally landing a kick on top of the man’s head. He pushed hard. His flesh ripped off as he finally pried himself free. Ascot sat up and spit something out of his mouth. Myron realized with horror that it was a meaty chunk of leg. Then they were on him. All three. Piled on. Myron ducked his head and started swinging. He connected with somebody’s chin. There was a grunt and a curse. But someone else hit him in the stomach. He felt the teeth on his leg again, the same spot, opening up the wound. Win. Where the hell was Win . . . ?

They used to call it fascism. Public-private partnership sounds a lot nicer. It’s fascism with a smiley face instead of a swastika. On a green flag, instead of a red and black one. And it’s a very handy way for politicians to funnel millions of dollars to their friends.

It could just as easily have been me. That reminder of human frailty and the role that fortune and misfortune play in our lives prevented me from becoming too prideful. Better men than me had died over in the sandbox, often purely by chance. Were you in the lead vehicle, or at the tail end of the convoy? Sometimes it came down to which side of a vehicle you were sitting on when something went ka-boom. Why did the invisible shard of flying metal hit the Marine to your right instead of you?

vanguard. Jackson’s division was the old valley army:

General Lafayette McLaws

Success depended once again on speed and deception, qualities that residents of the Shenandoah Valley were beginning to associate with Thomas Jackson. •

If news of his impending doom bothered Jackson, he did not show it. He sent no urgent dispatches to Richmond; he asked no counsel of any of his officers. He wrote no dramatic letters home, as Banks had, bidding a sentimental farewell to his wife as his own death loomed. Jackson seemed, in fact, at the center of this building storm, to be completely calm.

Ambrose Bierce heard the yell and described the effect it had on those occupying the dark gloomy woods: “Away to our left and rear some of Bragg’s people set up ‘the rebel yell.’ It was taken up successively and passed round to our front, along our right and in behind us again, until it seemed almost to have got to the point whence it started. It was the ugliest sound that any mortal ever heard.

Praise hell Satan!” Uncle Tony yelled. The room erupted in laughter. Grandma smacked him upside the head. “Ouch, what was that for?

Nearly all children nowadays were horrible. What was worst of all was that by means of such organizations as the Spies they were systematically turned into ungovernable little savages, and yet this produced in them no tendency whatever to rebel against the discipline of the Party. On the contrary, they adored the Party and everything connected with it. The songs, the processions, the banners, the hiking, the drilling with dummy rifles, the yelling of slogans, the worship of Big Brother—it was all a sort of glorious game to them. All their ferocity was turned outwards, against the enemies of the State, against foreigners, traitors, saboteurs, thought-criminals. It was almost normal for people over thirty to be frightened of their own children. And with good reason, for hardly a week passed in which the Times did not carry a paragraph describing how some eavesdropping little sneak—'child hero' was the phrase generally used—had overheard some compromising remark and denounced its parents to the Thought Police.

And, of course, he prayed and read his Bible and consecrated every act of his life, every thought he had, to God. He did this consciously, every day. The blessings of his life—and in the month of July in the year 1861, Jackson believed he was in a high state of grace—all came from the hand of God. At least part of his devotion involved reminding himself constantly of just that.

To make a revolution, to be a revolutionary, you have to believe in something.  Some new master plan for everybody to obey.  But to be a rebel, you don’t have to believe in anything.  You’re just a rebel, and you only want to be free.

Walt had arrived. He ripped through the enemy line with his bare hands—throwing one rebel magician down the hallway with inhuman strength, touching another and instantly encasing the man in mummy linen. He grabbed the staff of a third rebel, and it crumbled to dust. Finally he swept his hand toward the remaining enemies, and they shrank to the size of dolls. Canopic jars—the sort used to bury a mummy’s internal organs—sprang up around each of the tiny magicians, sealing them in with lids shaped like animal heads. The poor magicians yelled desperately, banging on the clay containers and wobbling about like a line of very unhappy bowling pins. Walt turned to our friends. “Is everyone all right?” He looked like normal old Walt—tall and muscular with a confident face, soft brown eyes, and strong hands. But his clothes had changed. He wore jeans, a dark Dead Weather T-shirt, and a black leather jacket—Anubis’s outfit, sized up to fit Walt’s physique. All I had to do was lower my vision into the Duat, just a bit, and I saw Anubis standing there in all his usual annoying gorgeousness. Both of them—occupying the same space. “Get ready,” Walt told our troops. “They’ve sealed the doors, but I can—” Then he noticed me, and his voice faltered. “Sadie,” he said. “I—” “Something about opening the doors?” I demanded. He nodded mutely. “Amos is in there?” I asked. “Fighting Kwai and Jacobi and who knows what else?” He nodded again. “Then stop staring at me and open the doors, you annoying boy!” I was talking to both of them. It felt quite natural. And it felt good to let my anger out. I’d deal with those two—that one—whatever he was—later. Right now, my uncle needed me. Walt/Anubis had the nerve to smile. He put his hand on the doors. Gray ash spread across the surface. The bronze crumbled to dust.

Stonewall Jackon's flank attack at Chancellorsville: All across the nearly two-mile width of Jackson's front, the woods and fields resounded with the rebel yell as the screaming attackers bore down on the startled Federals, who had just risen to whoop at the frightened deer and driven rabbits. Now it was their turn to be frightened — and driven, too. For the Union regiments facing west gave way in a rush before the onslaught, and as they fled the two guns they had abandoned were turned against them, hastening their departure and increasing the confusion among the troops facing south behind the now useless breastworks they had constructed with such care. These last took their cue from them and began to pull out too, in rapid succession from right to left down the long line of intrenchments, swelling the throng rushing eastward along the road. Within 20 minutes of the opening shows, Howard's flank division had gone out of military existence, converted that quickly from organization to mob. The adjoining division was sudden to follow the example set. Not even the sight of the corps commander himself, on horseback near Wilderness Church, breasting the surge of retreaters up the turnpike and clamping a stand of abandoned colors under the stump of his amputated arm while attempting to control the skittish horse with the other, served to end or even to slow the rout. Bareheaded and with tears in his eyes, Howard was pleading with them to halt and form, halt and form, but they paid him no mind, evidently convinced that his distress, whether for the fate of his country or his career or both, took no precedence over their own distress for their very lives. (p. 296).

What Do I Do With My Life Now? I sit alone in an empty house. No one calls and asks mom what's for dinner? I no longer reply red beans and rice. We always have the same thing my daughter would say, and I'd reply there are starving children in the world that would be happy to take your place. I no longer ask her, can you go to the store, when I need a can of tomato sauce. Or have her look at me and ask can I keep the change? Yeah, you can, but don't talk to strangers, come right back. I no longer hear, you know I won't. It turns out I can't send her to the store anymore or ask you how's school? Or have her sit next to me to watch our favorite show because I'm too damn mad at myself for having given her everything, and she rebelled, and ran away from home, found her own apartment, and won't even speak to her father when he comes to knock at her door to see how she is. I heard her wish us death. She yelled it loud just before she left.

Captain, my religious belief teaches me to feel as safe in battle as in bed. God has fixed the time for my death. I do not concern myself about that, but to be always ready, no matter when it may overtake me.

What if nobody was still around who even faintly remembered your past life there? In that case, your entire existence upon the planet Earth held no more lasting meaning than a random pebble tossed into a pond: the few ripples were soon gone, leaving no mark. In a zero-sum world, your life might as well not have been lived.

She’s been mistreated and she knows I’m a violent man. She’s terrified of me…” “And yet?” Mary prompted. “She yelled at me,” he said incredulously. “It’s been decades since anyone dared … she told me I couldna issue her orders, and that she was a woman with free and independent will. She called me an overbearing brute.” “Oh, Lord.” She hid a laughing smile behind her fan. “What did ye say to that?” “I kissed her. And she kissed me back.

Small humans rebel against force and control, just as big humans do. Luckily, they’re always open to our influence, as long as they respect us and feel connected to us. What raises great kids is coaching them—to handle their emotions, manage their behavior, and develop mastery—rather than controlling for immediate compliance. Thoughtful parents know that what they do today either helps or hinders the person their child is becoming. They “emotion-coach” so that their child develops the emotional intelligence essential to managing feelings and making wise choices. They use empathic limits rather than punishment—even just time-outs and consequences—to coach their child’s development of self-discipline, rather than simply forcing their child into obedience.

Most of what they do is legal because they paid off the lawmakers to make it legal. But some of it’s not. But they got money and jobs and lawyers and lobbyists and politicians in their pockets, and so nobody touches them. Same with the good folks at the Rebel Yell.

Having tasted defeat, the Navy was starting to come back to appreciating the unpolished strengths of the Georgia farm boys who found themselves under gentle persecution on board Commander Wylie’s Fletcher. A rebel yell and a blast of powder. That and a little planning and technical proficiency would carry the day.

My inner Billy Idol began to understand and my Rebel yell could be heard in the tiniest muscle of my body.

The scream could only be compared to human suffering or terror. Like a hyena or a banshee. Coyotes at their maddest. The mythologized Rebel Yell. High and thin. Fragile. Terrible. And on some level, humming under the surface like buried electrical cables, was a dim awareness that this wasn’t the first time he’d heard it. Again, the scream. Closer. An alarm going off between his eyes, in the pit of his stomach: Leave this place now. Don’t think about it. Just. Go.

Our society is so hell-bent on expansion, power and effiency at all costs that the folks [who question things or suggest the way something's done is not right,] are inconvenient. We slow the world down. We're on the bow of the Titanic, pointing, crying out, "Iceberg! Iceberg!" while everyone else is below deck, yelling back, "We just want to keep dancing!" It is easier to call us broken and dismiss us than to consider that we are responding appropriately to a broken world.

Devon Randle went down the center aisle toward the back of the dining room, where a set of swinging doors opened into the kitchen. An arm’s length or so short of the doors, he’d turned hard on his heels, spinning, shucking a pair of six-guns out of the holsters and into his hands. He’d stepped to the side, out of the way of the swinging doors, so no one could surprise him from that direction.

Distraction and diversion. It was more than Luke had dared hope for. He planned to make a move no matter what—he had to—come what may at whatever cost to himself. Then Cal and Jed had blundered along, scared witless and thinking only of getting off the street before the shooting started. Their timely interruption broke the concentration of Cort and Devon Randle.