The 2000 Season
We
started our season relatively early this year by attending a
tastefully staged 135th benefit performance of "Our American Cousin,"
presented by the 9th Pennsylvania Reserves. Traci and I smelled the
wood smoke drifting down from the grounds of the Andrew Carnegie Free
Library as we walked through Carnegie, and both of us immediately
caught "the fever." We wandered through the camp, talked with members
of the 9th, dressed for the Saturday night performance, and watched
the surprisingly entertaining play from the mezzanine of the
Library's remarkable theater. The play was halted at the precise
moment Booth assassinated Lincoln during the second act, and the
reenactors marched through the crowd, presented arms, and the
performance resumed.
I was later told that the staging of "Our American Cousin" raised $13,000, much of which is earmarked for the restoration of the Thomas Espy Post 153, the unique GAR post located in the library's second floor.
Two weeks after the play, Traci and I made our way north to the old Stone House, located in Slippery Rock. The event was a small one, with approximately 80 reenactors in attendance. The sole Confederate unit on hand was the 5th Virginia, a unit we've become quite familiar with over the past few seasons, and when a number of other members of the 40th arrived on Saturday, we chose to galvanize. I was fighting as a Confederate for the first time since 1987.
My tendency to take hits once prompted my parents to ask if I had ever survived a battle unscathed. I had the distinction of dying for both sides at Stone house; once in a slaughter pen before the stone wall defended by Union forces, and again later that night during an impromptu "tactical." Although heavily outnumbered at the event (the other members of the 40th left following Saturday's battle and didn't return), more Confederates seemed willing to skirmish that Saturday evening. I happily donned my true colors, only to get shot by several members of the 5th when our thin line got flanked (I should have run when someone from the 63rd Pennsylvania ran past me, shouting "They're right behind me!).
Unfortunately, a couple of the galvanized Yankees decided to mount solo pistol charges on the Union lines on Sunday, and the battle drew to a close within minutes, leaving both spectators and participants confused and disappointed. I've always felt that those portraying infantry privates should refrain from carrying pistols on the field, and the foolhardy, dangerous and blatantly farby assault on the wall in the woods behind the Stone House merely reinforces my belief.
New Market Virginia, May 20-21
Through some strange twist of fate, both Traci and I managed to get Friday off. We would have the uncommon luxury of taking our time on the drive down, and setting up in camp well before dark.
Dark clouds and frequent rain squalls dogged us for much of the trip. particularly as we drove south past Winchester. Although the skies lightened somewhat by the time we reached Massanutten Mountain, the weather was still unsettled, and a fairly strong wind blew across the valley.
We pulled in to the New Market Battlefield around 6, and quickly found the registration table. We were both initially put off by the long line at the table, until one of the organizers walked through the line asking "Are there any Union reenactors." Only Traci and I stepped forward, and from that point on it was apparent that we would be heavily outnumbered.
The Union camp was located on a hill about a quarter of a mile away from the registration table, and Traci and I soon found the USV camp. Unfortunately, our early arrival also meant that we were among the first of the 40th's members to walk into camp. As the wind was picking up and a light rain began to fall, we threw our tents up on a gentle slope by a company of U.S. regulars, and soon called it a night.
I spent much of the night listening to the rain beating on the light fabric of my dog tent, but somehow, I managed to stay dry. As a general rule, I tend to wake up early on the first day of most events, and New Market was no exception; I rolled off my poncho at 5 A.M., and wandered about camp. A thick layer of fog obscured all but the nearest objects, and the heavy mist persisted throughout the morning. One benefit of waking up before dawn became apparent at 6, when a Sergeant emerged from his tent and strolled down the company rows, shouting "Wake up, USVs" and other, more colorful phrases. Few of the boots protruding from the various tents remained un-kicked. The early morning racket was accompanied by a more musical reveille sounded by a (fortunately) talented bugler, and most soldiers and civilians alike emerged from their tents relatively unscathed by the rude awakening (although Traci grumbled for some time about being roused so early).
Saturday: I re-lit our cooking fire to ease the damp chill of the morning, and we soon had a decent breakfast of bacon and pancakes. Traci and I found the 40th's company row shortly after breakfast. It was heartening to see a large unit present at the event; it can be quite demoralizing when you plan on attending an event with your unit several hundred miles from home, only to discover that a). you are the only two there, b). you are the only two camped, or c). the other members of the unit only plan on participating one day. It was certainly nice to know that our decision to join the 40th this season was a wise one indeed.
Traci and I wandered down to sutler row and perused the twenty or so merchants at the event. One of my goals this season was to improve my impression and eliminate some of the extra baggage I carry to events (although I tend to carry considerably less than most mainstreamers). I bought some gun cleaning implements to attach to my ram rod, and a few small muslin bags that should allow me to organize items in my knapsack. I also bought a billy cup, a canteen half and some hardtack. Traci in turn emerged with a new petticoat, and both of us wandered back to camp.
Company and battalion drill took place around 11, and we fell in once again shortly after noon for the battle. The morning was cool, even cold, and damp, but the sun burned through the fog as we went on line, and the temperatures soared. The sunlight and wind combined to dry tents and fields alike, but as we pressed forward towards the Confederate line, we entered waist high grass that made movement more difficult. The long grass also provided sufficient shade for the abundant poison ivy in the field.
We were deployed as skirmishers along a rail fence at the center of the Federal lines. The Confederate forces clearly outnumbered us, but as they began to advance, a company of Bucktails emerged from the woods on their left flank. The attack initially ground to a halt, but all too quickly the gray masses approached us, forcing us back. Our left flank was particularly exposed, and quickly crumbled. Captain Black maintained a semblance of order in the 40th by ordering a series of retreats "by company to the rear in open order," but the assault was too heavy. I took a hit in an area free of poison ivy, and quickly found that the tall grass hid me entirely from view. I got up, limped a few yards to get out of the immediate path of the Confederate advance, and went down again.
I peeked above the grass several times, but the weeds and the terrain obscured my view. A second line of Confederates approached, and I saw a dozen or so hats atop muskets rise above the grass. I merely waved my forage cap at the butternuts as they passed over me. As a group, they were quite amiable, congratulating me on the fight and shaking my hand as they passed around me on their way to sweeping the Yankees from the field.
One of the more poignant aspects of the New Market reenactment stems from the fact that like Cedar Creek, the event takes place on the actual battlefield. I often try to read something about the reenactments we attend beforehand; in this case, it was William Davis' account of the battle. As Traci and I walked towards the Virginia Military Institute Hall of Valor, we passed by the Field of Lost Shoes, where the mud churned up from fierce thunderstorms and thousands of feet sucked off boots and brogans alike. We made our way past the Bushong farmhouse, the site of some of the fiercest fighting of the battle. Finally, we arrived at the contemporarily styled museum, where stained glass windows commemorate the cadets killed in the fight, letters convey the urgency and aspirations of the young men, and artifacts surround the visitors with the physical realities of the conflict. Experiences like this remind me of why I'm doing this . . .
We were talking with some friends from the 7th West Virginia when two battalions of Federals marched by to participate in a tactical. It was clear that despite the disparity of numbers at the event, the Federal troops outnumbered their Confederate opponents. Units from both sides passed through a tunnel underneath route 81, with the Confederates taking position on a hilltop parallel to our vantage point. My experience with tacticals has been that, with the exception of Cedar Creek, the Union forces frequently get slaughtered (I seldom live through them). We felt confident that tonight would be an exception, and watched the impressive spectacle unfold; the omnipresent wind unfurled the flags of the opposing forces, and the Union troops advanced up the hill. We followed their progress by watching as the tops of the flag poles, then the flags themselves emerged at the crest of the hill, which otherwise obscured our view of the tactical. We could see the Union commanders, with their staff and orderlies galloping about, on a hillside to our right. And we saw the Confederate cavalry envelope and annihilate our general staff. Reenactors returning to camp informed us that the tactical turned into yet another debacle for the Union. For once, I was happy not to join in evening's the fun.
After dinner we accompanied our captain to the barn dance behind the Bushong house, but all of soon left the warmth of the crowded building. I made one last visit to sutler's row, and Traci and I soon returned to our tents to make up for the previous night's abbreviated sleep.
Somehow the thin drill cloth of my humble shelter resisted another storm that struck around 3:30 in the morning. I "slept in," and didn't emerge from my tent until 7 A.M.
Sunday:
The USVs and Vincent's Brigade formed up en masse to march past a
camera crew, apparently there to produce a new film on the battle for
one of the museums. Shortly before Sunday's battle, Teg, a fellow
private in the 40th, gave me a cdv of a woman bearing a striking
resemblance to Traci. He admonished me to keep the photo in my coat
pocket, lest I pass on to a better world without taking one last look
at the face of the woman I love. Most of us were struck by the
haunting likeness between my fiancée and the woman in the old
photograph.
Like the previous day, Sunday morning was cool and damp, but the sun broke through in time to ensure a hot afternoon for the reenactment. Captain Black informed me that a small detachment of VMI cadets would participate in today's battle, and I vowed that I would try to survive long enough to see the cadets take the abandoned cannon.
We marched out an hour before the battle, but our commanders had enough sense to let us rest in the shade of the trees along the hedgerow bordering the grassy field. Other units deployed in the orchard, which extended in front of our left flank. When rebel forces began advancing, our units moved across the fence and into the field before the barn on the Bushong estate. We fell back steadily as the Confederates pressed forward, retreated over the fence and into the field, and finally counterattacked.
Our advance initially blunted and then halted the Confederate assault. We wound up in a fire fight with a rebel unit posted along the fence, but as we were standing in one of the thickest patches of poison ivy anyone had seen in the field, none of us went down. That would change dramatically as the Southerners mounted a renewed assault, driving us back through the field towards the batteries to our rear. Men began to drop rapidly all around us as we attempted to maintain some semblance of order. It was all for naught; the VMI cadets surged forward, the Confederate lines advanced rapidly, and when we turned to face our assailants one last time, we discovered much to our chagrin that they had closed to within a few yards or our final line. Someone shouted "every man for himself," and the the few of us left took off, with the graybacks in hot pursuit.
The 60 or so miles of bicycling I was putting in each week came in handy that afternoon, as I quickly passed many less fortunate Yankees, who were swallowed up by the gray hordes. By the time the few survivors reached the field bordering our camp, the Confederates had broken off their pursuit, our exhausted bugler sounded "Taps," and the thousand or so men and women of both sides gradually dispersed.
Although someone insisted that the poison ivy was actually the visually similar but innocuous wild strawberry plant, my knowledge gleaned from years of living in the country, and the healing blisters on your correspondent's hands, tell a different story. The long grass that provided the noxious weeds with such ideal growing conditions also hid much of the battle from the spectators. However, I believe I heard an announcer say that the event raised $10,000 in funds for preserving the New Market Battlefield. This year's event was sponsored by the Great American Civil War Society rather than the local chamber of commerce, which meant that at least a portion of the proceeds from registration and admission fees, as well as the $1 fee for straw, went to battlefield preservation. The battles generally went well, long grass and poison ivy aside, although a timely cutting would not only have diminished the threat from the three-leafed hazard, but also afforded the thousands of spectators a much better view of much of the fighting. To be fair, Traci's photos prove that people could see a fair amount of the battle, particularly the charge of the VMI cadets, who came quite close to the crowd. Porta Potties, wood and water buffalos were easily accessible, and the volunteer staff was courteous and helpful. The disparity between Union and the more numerous Confederate forces was disturbing; historically, Sigel's Northerners outnumbered Beckenridge's forces roughly 9,000 to 5,300, but this is common at many reenactments.
Although some may fault me for saying so, but it would be nice if some of these events did more for the civilians, although New Market featured some living history activities centered around the Bushong Farm House.
Interlude: Wedding Trip
The weekend following New Market saw Traci and I return to Northern Virginia to finalize a number of wedding plans and details. Once again, we managed to get an early start on the road, but as we pulled in to Middletown, it was obvious that something was drastically different; a development of ugly, square houses had cropped up along Interstate 81 on the northern end of town. We stopped at the Cedar Creek Battlefield Foundation, and received some mixed news: on the one hand, the Foundation has recently saved more land from development. On the other, the newly constructed development (literally yards away from I-81) indicates that developers are moving further south.
This region is particularly charming in the Spring, and Traci and I enjoyed our visits at the Strasburg Inn and the Wayside. Strasburg is a lovely little town, relatively untouched by planned communities and strip malls. Our travels that weekend also included Winchester, which is a confusing blend of beautiful old neighborhoods and a tastefully executed shopping district, and strip malls, heavy development and ugly roadside commercialization. Traci and I chose to eschew I-81 and take the old Valley Pike (Route 19) from Middletown to Winchester that Friday, and both of us were horrified to discover the extent of the destruction in Kernstown. While the possibility of saving the first battlefield still exists, the second is virtually paved over. Few sights angered me more than the sign advertising the "Battlefield Park Estates"; to think that people would rush to buy up pieces of history without bothering to realize that by encouraging developers, they would ultimately contribute to the demise of hundreds of acres of historic land. The loss is bad enough, but developers blatantly advertise their developments as "pieces of history . . ." It has always been a dream of mine to buy and restore an old farmhouse in this area, and there are a number of old homes for sale in the region. It seems like such a waste to move into the soulless uniformity of developments when one could buy a true piece of history (and help in the preservation effort) without ruining the land or encouraging more waste , but then, I've never understood people's attraction to large housing developments.
On a more positive note, we visited the excellent Visitor's Center in Winchester. Historians fascinated with the role artillery played in the Civil War would be especially interested in the second floor exhibit, which contained dozens of common and unusual projectiles, including massive mortar and Rodman shot and shells.
According to the latest copy of Civil War News, the Kernstown Battlefield Association has 2.5 million of the four million dollar asking price of the Grim Farm. A historic easement will protect about two thirds of the property, but the remaining third of the 315 acres would be vulnerable to development should the Battlefield Foundation fail to raise the remaining 1.5 million. The Association may be reached at (540) 662-1824.
Philippi West Virginia, June 1-3
Once again, we wound our way over the tortuous roads of West Virginia on our way to the charming little town of Philippi. Pittsburgh was pummeled by yet another heavy storm as we left for the event, and a line of showers paralleled I-79 as we traveled south. It looked as though we would have another rainy weekend to match the nocturnal showers at New Market and the heavy rains that plagued our trip to Middletown. By some stroke of luck, the nasty line of thunderstorms passed around us, and when we arrived around 8:30 that evening, the ground was dry, although the sky was filled with brilliant flashes of lightning from the storms skirting around the town. Traci and I registered and quickly found the 40th camped in the small park across the Tygart River. We set our tents up in the dwindling light, and Traci went to bed shortly afterwards, although I spent much of the night talked with other members of our unit. A couple of brief showers passed through the area, but the night quickly cleared and the characteristic morning chill of Spring set in.
Saturday: Traci and I wandered in to town to procure some breakfast at a small diner in town. The streets were already filling with people, who wandered from booth to booth exploring the dozens of vendors set up along main street. As I wrote last year, the people in this town really go all out for the reenactors, and we received many encouraging remarks as we strolled down main street.
Saturday's battle followed last year's scenario; Union troops crossed the bridge and advanced along the banks of the Tygart River, briefly pushing the Confederate's back before a fierce rebel attack threw the Yanks back toward the bridge abutment. The 40th, as part of third company, stayed back behind the stone wall extending from the end of the bridge, and we were initially spared from the carnage ensuing from the Southerner's rampage. Our casualties mounted steadily however, and we soon found ourselves flanked as the gray-clad attackers annihilated first and second companies, and flanked us on our right. Our lieutenant ordered a few men in our rear rank to escape through the tunnel, and they slipped away unseen, leaving less than a dozen "survivors" to surrender to the Confederate commander.
We spent much of the remaining afternoon in the camp, relaxing and chatting about sundry subjects. Rick Karlowski, Dell and I were interviewed by a local newscaster, and most of us had the chance to clean our muskets before the evening's dinner, ball and tactical. The organizers provided our dinner, and despite the relative scarcity of cannon at the year's event, our sponsors announced that there were over 200 participants. Next year marks the 140th anniversary of the Philippi Races, and the beginning of the 140th anniversary cycle. Our hosts reportedly hinted that they would go all out for us next year.
Most of us stayed in camp during the Acoustic Shadows concert, but made our way into town for the ball. This is usually a highlight of the event, as the smaller number of participants, coupled with the large lawn behind the bandstand, allow virtually everyone to enjoy the dancing. Captain Black came by around ten 'o clock to inform me that we had a special surprise for planned for the night tactical, and then he slipped off into the darkness. Traci and I followed when the ball came to an end, and Traci quickly doffed her dress in favor of jeans and a jacket so she could photograph the tactical.
A few Confederate pickets were stationed on the far shore of the river shortly before we formed up, but there appeared to be little threat of an unexpected river fording. Dell was clearly concerned about his plan coming to fruition, as he had not heard any reports coming from town. In effect, we could possibly have lost a third of our force before we began fighting. Nonetheless, we formed up and began marching through the darkness toward town. A squad of rebels had already crosses the bridge, and was deployed across the road. First company went into battle front and drove them back through the bridge, while the artillery opened up in a spectacular show of pyrotechnics over the river.
Upon entering town, the action took on a dramatically different pace. Units moved through the crowd past the museum and along the railroad bed. At this point, Dell's "surprise" came into play, and the scheme worked to near perfection. He had second company deploy in town during the dance, where they could swing around and attack the Confederate rear while the main force consisting of the first and third companies stormed through the bridge. As we had no word from second company before the skirmish began, Captain Black feared that they might have been captured before we fired a shot. Fortunately, that was not the case. We moved swiftly against a rebel unit directly ahead when a second unit of troops emerged from the night and ran past our left flank. It was second company springing an ambush, and the outflanked and heavily outnumbered Confederates quickly broke and fled towards their camp in town. A second rebel company appeared on our right, and we quickly swung into line to face them. The shooting lasted but a few minutes; a train approached the town, prompting a brief halt to the action (state police halted the train, much to the engineer's disgust), and our opponents found themselves virtually surrounded. Their commander wisely called cease fire and withdrew from the fight.
It is amazing to see how rapidly and fluidly a tactical can move. Units ran through the night seeking the enemy, with somewhat humorous results. Traci (who was gamely trying to follow the action) recounted a story of a local man sitting in his pickup, probably wondering about the source of the flashes and booms near the bridge. Without warning, a squad of Confederates ran by, turned and fired a volley, then fled, with Union attackers close behind. The poor man crouched low in his seat, and simply said "holy (you can probably guess the explicative)." At least one member of the 40th also recounted how he fired several times at a body of troops, only to discover that they were wearing blue uniforms. The poor lad will probably not live this down for the remainder of the season.
With most of the Confederates driven from the battle, we formed up and began our march back to town, only to find a line of gray clad troops firing down the bridge with their backs towards us (they might have been firing on our musicians, a group of Union reenactors who fell out early, or possibly even their own men). This presented both sides with an awkward situation; the Confederates were outnumbered more than ten to one, while we were still in our column of fours, with little room to move by company into line. Fortunately, second company wasn't in marching order, and they rushed forward to meet the Confederate charge. Our assailants must have been waiting for any opportunity to take a hit, for they went down in almost perfect unison. At the ball, Dell remarked "I don't lose tacticals," and if that night's performance is any indication, it's easy to see why.
Unfortunately, the battle was not without a casualty. Traci's right leg slipped between a couple of railroad ties near the bridge, and she limped home with a sore and badly swollen leg. Dell provided some ice, and we went to bed with our fingers crossed.
Sunday: I woke up with a number of dire scenarios racing through my mind: Traci's leg might be broken or severely sprained, and the swelling might cut off the circulation to her foot. The previous night, Captain Black told me that it might be a soft tissue injury, and fortunately (relatively) for us, that is what it turned out to be. Painful and debilitating to be sure, but not as serious as some of the other possibilities. Traci stayed in camp that morning, while I walked in to town to get some breakfast for the two of us. The poor cashier behind the counter was horrified when I paid for a large coffee, and then produced my 38 + ounce coffee boiler (a very useful item for carrying coffee back to camp).
The day's battle was a fast paced skirmish down Main Street. Our companies drove the rebels back through the village toward the Hardees, where the event officials were waiting for us. For the second year in a row, my normally reliable Springfield became unserviceable when primer material clogged the percussion cone, forcing me to borrow a gun from the 40th's first sergeant. We halted before the Hardees, received medals and water, and then someone told me some disturbing news; one of the women who was serving food at Saturday's dinner died of a heart attack that night. I still haven't confirmed the news, but it put something of a damper on an otherwise fine weekend.
Reenactors frequently praise the Philippi reenactment. The amenities are generous, the registration fee reasonable, and the people friendly and accommodating. Sutler's row, although small this year, is growing, and the battles are often characterized by a swift pace. The crowd is able to get in close proximity, and spectators can follow the action (particularly on Sunday) from the opening shots to the conclusion.
Gettysburg Pennsylvania, July 1-3
I left Pittsburgh at 4:30 Saturday morning. Traci stayed behind with a cold (she also had to work on Monday). It was around 8 O'clock when I finally pulled into Gettysburg, and within half an hour I my way to the registration table (located in a barn opposite the reenactment site). Last year's event was a logistical nightmare, compounded by the fact that our old unit chose to camp virtually under the National Tower, miles away from the event. It was almost immediately evident that the organizers learned from 1999's mistakes; the camp was well situated, water was easily accessible, and the sutlers and activities areas were close to the Federal camp (although the Confederates had a longer walk, but one side or the other invariably seems to be located some distance away from the activities at these larger events).
The 40th Pennsylvania was camped with Vincent's Brigade. I quickly found an area to set up my dog tent and made my self "at home" for what was set to be a long weekend. We fell in for drill at 11, I witnessed a period wedding (held in front of the grandstand), and Vincent's brigade formed up for dress parade shortly before the afternoon's battle. There were approximately 250 reenactors present in Vincent's sundry ranks that day, and roughly 2,500 reenactors at the event in general.
Day 1: Unlike last year's Culp's Hill scenario, the weekend's opening battle played out directly in front of the spectators. The Union forces were depicting the Eleventh Corps on the first day, and the scenario essentially followed the historic trajectory of events; we held briefly, and then broke under the fierce Confederate assaults. Captain Black held some semblance of order as our line crumbled, withdrawing us by the right of company across the field. I took a hit perhaps 15 minutes in to the battle, and Dell slung me over his shoulder like a rag doll and carried me well behind the lines before the masses ran over me.
Several of us went into town that evening, exploring the various antique shops and sutlers in Gettysburg. Exhausted following my early morning trip, I returned and fell asleep around 11:30.
Day 2: The notes of reveille drifted through camp at 6 a.m. A reenactor from a Wisconsin unit behind me woke up and proclaimed "I fell asleep at Gettysburg, and woke up at Cedar Creek." It had been a chilly night, but many of us welcomed the cold and slept well.
The second day featured two battle scenarios: the Wheat field, where the Pennsylvania Reserves distinguished themselves (with a considerable amount of serendipity), and Cemetery Hill. The Wheat field was a rather stock scenario; we advanced, were repulsed, and advanced again, before taking excessive casualties.
Most the the 40th pulled out that afternoon, but several of us stayed on for the evening's scenario, the attack on Cemetery Hill. Rick Karlowski, his son Matt and I fell in with a unit deployed on the far left of the Federal line. After two rather predictable battles, we assumed that this would follow a standard format; the Confederates would attack our line before taking enormous losses and retreating in disarray. Several of us placed our rounds on the rail fence in anticipation.
The Rebels did advance to the fence. Several cannon were placed further to our left, and they enticed the Confederates to flank our position. We pointed this fact out to anyone within earshot, before Rick went down after sparring with one of our gray-clad assailants. The Reb might have gone down as well, but then decided to cross the fence when he saw me ready to fire. Both of us shot simultaneously, and both went down (my third "hit" of the event) simultaneously. The graybacks swept over us, and we watched in amazement as the Union line was pushed to within a few yards of the crowd. The scene was absolutely spectacular.
And then the crowd seemed to open up.
It seems that the wily Federal commander placed the USVs behind the crowd, where they were in a position to flank the Confederate line. If the rebels anticipated such a maneuver, they certainly acted surprised, as the counter attack rolled them up and sent the assault reeling back across the field.
We wandered back through the crowd following the battle, answering questions and getting a dozen requests for photos. Rick and I are both teachers, and I'm increasingly finding the educational aspect of the hobby far more interesting than burning powder. Not that I don't enjoy a good battle . . . and the organizers had given us an exceptional scenario that late afternoon.
The Karlowski's and I spent much of the evening at Seminary ridge, wandering among the monuments and gauging the distances the shells traveled and troops marched on that fatal July 3rd, so many summers before. The National Tower loomed over us, windows empty and black. I recalled camping virtually under the steel monstrosity last year. Stripped of its trappings and the faces pressed against the windows, the hollow shell lent an even deeper sense of melancholy to the scene as it stood for one last night.
Day 3: Vincent's Brigade fielded some 250 troops on Saturday. Today, the entire Union force consisted of approximately 300 men, opposed by perhaps the same number of Confederates. We marched into the field one last time, and the prerequisite artillery duel announced the beginning of the event's final scenario, Pickett's Charge. Given the small numbers, we both sides put on a decent, if brief, battle. After dying in three of the weekend's four battles, I emerged from this one unscathed.
I wandered through the crowd after the battle with Matt Fox (9th New York), answering questions and enjoying the fact that I didn't have to rush home. We made our way to the stands shortly before 5 o'clock, to watch the destruction of the National Tower. The rain began to fall as we waited for the final countdown. Confederate and Union artillery moved into a line before the crowd. Finally, the countdown began, the artillery fired a ragged salvo, and we stared at the distant tower, expecting it to disappear at any moment.
The artillery was told to fire 15 seconds before the implosion, thus allowing time for the imaginary "shells" to travel to the tower. The time passed, and we began to wonder if somehow the structure had survived the blast. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the tower began tilting to the right. Within seconds, it vanished from view. An eyesore entered history.
Compared with last year's debacle, the 137th Gettysburg was much improved. Water, camps and facilities were all within easy walking distance, the battles were clearly visible to the massive and appreciative audience (sold out on Sunday and Monday) and the weather, with the exception of the heavy rain Monday afternoon, was stellar. I packed light enough to carry my gear to the camp in a single trip, and I intend to continue this practice, if at all possible.
Although I would hesitate to call the experience an epiphany, this event did spawn a fundamental shift in my attitude toward reenacting. Although some may criticize the practice of wandering into the crowd to answer questions and interpret events (although I did not go into a first person impression), I thoroughly enjoyed this experience. Interpretation tents are wonderful, but I also believe that direct interaction has its place at an event.
The event itself remains heavily commercialized: organizers donated $2,000 from last year's event to historical preservation, but that comes from an event that drew some 3,000 participants and upwards of 25,000 spectators. This year's reenactment at New Market drew considerably smaller numbers, and yet still raised $10,000 for the battlefield. The bleachers and omnipresent p.a. system, blaring the Gettysburg soundtrack incessantly, lent to a carnivalesque atmosphere. I expected all of this, and managed to block it out. I was there for one reason: to watch the tower fall.
Matt and I greeted the tower's demise with a hearty "huzzah!" Given our culture's propensity to demolish history to make room for new commercial enterprises, it was refreshing to see the wheels of the system churning in the opposite direction. In retrospect however, the tower was a highly visible but relatively innocuous nuisance. The true desecration lies at the northern end of town, where the hotels, superstores and housing tracts have already blotted portions of the battlefield from existence. As notorious as the tower might have been, its symbolic destruction may only serve to mask the far greater, more prevalent threat of commercial development.
Day 1: Traci and I pulled in to Hale Farm at 1 on Saturday morning. She chose to sleep in the car, while I threw my poncho and blanket on the ground and spent much of the night watching the Aurora Borealis. We fell in with the 40th after sunrise.
Hale Farm is a historic community located 45 minutes south of Cleveland. Although much of the village itself seems to be in the grasp of a crew stubbornly mired in 1848, the setting is stunning, particularly when seen through the fog at 6 in the morning.
We drilled before noon, and fell in for battle after lunch. The scenario called for a Confederate victory following a Union advance. Rick and I both volunteered to become "walking wounded," and we subsequently fell out shortly after the fighting began.
The battle took place in a large field adjacent to the Hale House. A rather large contingent of civilian reenactors, including surgeons and undertakers, were set up along the fence encompassing the field, and Rick and I threaded our way through the crowd to the surgeon's tent. My superficial "wound" was quickly wrapped, but Rick's war was over as the medical staff informed the crowd that "This man's leg will have to come off." Several children fled the scene, and I vividly recall the "wounded" telling one particularly distraught boy that we were all going to be fine. Of the 18 men fielded by the 40th that day, four of us made it through the fight, and only 1 emerged unhurt.
Our hosts were quite generous. We arrived back in camp to find carts of ice cream waiting for us, and, we were treated to an all you can eat barbecue that evening. The Confederates attacked the camp as we came trickling back from our meal, and for once, the Federals came out in force (my experience with unorganized tacticals is that we Federals seldom participate, and the few intrepid souls who venture out to face the butternut peril seldom "live" through the experience). Our lines quickly enveloped a few rebs who got too close and, caught up in the sense that we could drive through their camp, surged forward.
We should have stayed in our own camp.
The Union line skirmished its way through the fields, only to find itself outnumbered and outflanked. We fell back in a battle line (another mistake), but most of us were captured behind some outbuildings behind the Hale House. Thus ended yet another Union rout.
Day 2: We were to win today. We marched up the road and entered the end of the field defended by the Confederates on the previous day, stacked arms, and waited for the artillery duel. A large crowd lined the field along the fence, and we could imagine the rebels walking down the same gorgeous trails through the woods we had traveled the day before. The cannons exchanged fire, we went into line, and the Confederates emerged from the trees.
When Scenarios Go Bad
The Confederates were to advance to a point roughly midway through the field, take large numbers of hits, and then retreat, much as we had the day before. We in turn were to open fire, and then move forward, driving them from the field. We fired an opening volley, and many of us were struck at the number of Confederates who went down almost immediately. By our fourth and fifth volleys, the entire force was down. We knew that many rebs had left the previous night, but with the main body completely annihilated, many of us began to scan the trees for a flanking attack. It was inconceivable that a battle could end less than five minutes after the infantry opened fire.
Our commanders were equally perplexed. They ordered us to dress the line, scanned the field for something else to attack, and finally chose to take the cannon. As we began our advance, the Confederate dead rose from the field and fell back into line. "They took too many hits," I thought, "they must be resurrecting themselves to put up more of a fight." That hope ended when the line capped off and marched away.
At this stage, battles often seem to blur together. Traci and I are more interested in camaraderie and education than fighting, so I wasn't angry because I felt cheated out of a battle by a bunch of people who apparently wanted to go home early. I felt that the spectators had been cheated out of a decent battle. They applauded us as we walked by, but many of us felt that we had shortchanged the crowd. It was a poor way to end what was otherwise a fine event.
Following my light camping experience at Gettysburg, I kept my gear to a minimum and left my dog tent home. It's amazing to listen to people call you hardcore when you're the only tent-less Yankee at an event.
We were already imagining the delicious food at The Steel Trolley Diner as we wandered through Lisbon's charming streets Friday evening. Lisbon is merely an hour from Pittsburgh, so we had ample time to eat before we made our way to the Scenic Vista Park to set up. Although our plan was to fall in with the 7th West Virginia, the unit never showed up. The 105th Ohio was kind enough to let me fall in with them for the weekend.
Day 1: One vast improvement was obvious from the moment we pulled in. The battles take place in a field across the road from the park. Last year, the road leading to the field was steep, rutted and fairly difficult to pass over in a column of fours. This year, the surface was considerably more level and manageable. As with most events this season, the weather was beautiful today, considerably cooler than last year.
Our troops marched down the driveway into the field shortly before 2:00, and the battle went well. Unlike last year, when the battles often took on a sort of formless nature, we were tightly organized and the various companies did an effective job of maintaining a semblance of order as we drove the Confederates from the field.
An organizer told me that there were approximately 250 reenactors at the event. Given Lisbon's small size, we were again surprised by the artillery present. Two of the cannons piqued my interest when I saw production dates inscribed on the muzzles. As it turns out, the pair of 3" ordinance rifles are originals, on loan to the unit for a number of years. One of the guns had been bulldozed underground in the 1960s, but was rescued and restored years later.
One would be hard pressed to complain about the amenities at Lisbon; our dinner was well made, and the concert/ball, courtesy of Acoustic Shadows, was excellent. Traci and I had a chance to work out some final plans for the wedding with Greg Adams (Acoustic Shadows' lead singer), and then enjoyed the remainder of the evening dancing the various reels and waltzes.
Day 2: A heavy storm passed through around 5:50 this morning, but for the most part, the Union forces were still present in force. The Confederates marched by in force shortly before our ample breakfast rations were distributed. It was immediately evident that a number of rebs left the event last night, which was unfortunate because today's Confederate victory would probably involve a few small, heavily outnumbered units driving a much larger Federal force off the field.
Traci and I hammered out some more details with Acoustic Shadows, I answered some spectator's questions about my Springfield, and then the call came to fall in. The Union troops picked their way through the forest, finally resting in the woods on the end of the field formerly occupied by our foes. I volunteered for skirmish duty, and was out on the field shortly after the artillery barrage. We advanced, held a position roughly in the middle of the field, and then gave way in the face of superior numbers (although the Confederate forces were seriously depleted, as I had feared). I went down on my way back to the main body, rolled on to my back and pulled out the photograph my pards from the 40th bought for me at New Market. The haunting similarity between the woman in the photo and Traci was underscored when someone from the 5th Virginia saw the picture and complimented me on dying with a photo of my sweetheart in my hands.
Today's battle drew a complaint from some of the spectators: the action took place too far away from the viewing area, and the rolling terrain we fought in made it more difficult to watch the troops. There were quite a few spectators at the battles, and it is readily apparent that this event is growing in popularity. As well it should.
The past few years have seen the dramatic rise of campaign-oriented reenacting. Known in various circles as hard cores, progressives, authentics or campaigners, these die-hard reenactors seek to establish an authentic experience well beyond that of the typical reenactment weekend. Mainstreamers often characterize these reenactors as stitch-nazis, and the campfires often echo with the tales of overzealous campaigners ridiculing inauthentic garb or exposing hidden coolers.
Given the less-than-stellar reputation of progressive reenactors among mainstreamers, it's hardly surprising that many groups chose to avoid the Fire of the Mountain event in Boonsboro this year. The organizers merely used the dreaded phrases "progressive scenario," "authenticity inspections" and "campaign oriented," and groups suddenly scattered to the wind.
I approached this weekend with more than a bit of trepidation. I've been working towards a more authentic impression for some time now, and I have to concede that most of the events Traci and I have attended in our three seasons tend to fall more in the category of social gatherings rather than focused historical activities. I vividly remember meeting a reenactor from a Massachusetts group at Gettysburg this past July. It was his first national-level event, and he was horrified at the extracurricular activities of the various men and officers. Although he wasn't from a hard core unit, he expected a much higher level of authenticity, a goal which anachronistic conversations and frequent quips couldn't enhance.
In many respects, I've been experiencing the same emotions this season. I know that most aspects of my impression could be improved, and now that I'm teaching again, I can afford some material upgrades. I've also been conducting more research into the daily aspects of soldier's lives to improve my knowledge of mid-nineteenth century culture. I've also focused my energy on educating the public at events, as a means of compensating for the often circus-like atmosphere at some of the reenactments. This helps, but I've still been looking for something more . . .
When Bill Watson extended an invitation for mainstream reenactors to attend a seminar on campaigning on Saturday, I signed up without much hesitation. As the event approached and most of the 40th chose not to head off to Maryland however, it became more apparent that I would probably wind up falling in with Company I, the "incubator" company. Given the mainstream perception of campaigners as elitist blowhards and arrogant arbiters of all that's authentic, I was a bit nervous as I left my final class for the three hour trek to South Mountain.
I left my fuzzy, navy-blue sack coat behind. My Jarnagin frock coat graced the trunk . . . with few other items. I generally travel light to reenactments, but this time a kept things pared down to a minimum, in case I would fall in with the campaigner company. Much like last year, the circuitous route to the site of the reenactment was well marked. Now, I merely had to make a quick stop at the registration table, thread my way though camp to the remote parking lot, and find my pards for the weekend.
The parking arrangements made me thankful that I could carry my gear in one trip. The lot was indeed located well away from camp, although this also made for a nice camping experience, without the ubiquitous car lots intruding on our nineteenth century experience. A bulldozed path wound its way through the woods to the Federal camp, and I was soon on my way, with little idea of what the event would bring.
Campaigners seem to have a penchant for choosing beautiful, isolated campsites (if the event coordinators are generous enough to set aside such areas). Such was the case here. I merely stopped to look for the Company I sign when someone called out and asked if I was looking for the campaigner's area. I figured that I might as well take the plunge, and I wandered into the small, pleasant campsite in the woods.
Bill Watson was the individual kind enough to invite me in. It quickly became apparent that these people were not the sanctimonious man-eaters of mainstreamer legend, but rather a knowledgeable, friendly and sincere group of men who were actively seeking a more authentic experience. Within minutes, I felt accepted and considerably less self-conscious. Thus began what could be considered my best experience in three seasons of reenacting. Bill was kind enough to issue me a ration of bacon for the weekend, and I took some time to fry the meat in my canteen half.
Friday night was more of a social night, and I took the opportunity to visit the relatively small sutler's row. Bill directed me to the S & S Sutler. I emerged from the Sutlery with a Sekela sack coat, a Gary Owens haversack, and a bit of a dent in my credit limit. I quickly found out that the lightweight flannel shell was not only far more authentic than those worn by the lion's share of reenactors, it's also far more comfortable than the old purple fuzzies. Excited by my purchases (and feeling a little guilty about my uncharacteristic excess), I bedded down in the woods for the night.
Saturday: I seldom sleep much on the first night of an event, but I got an hour or two in before I stirred from my bed at 5:30. Most of my newfound comrades were still asleep, and I took the opportunity to wander back to the car to exchange my greatcoat with a blanket. I met a few more denizens of the campaigner area: Dave, Mark (our first sergeant) and "Soupbone" Weymer, of the Columbia Rifles. Soupbone was especially helpful in describing some of the appropriate equipment for a campaign impression, and he remained a font of information throughout the weekend. There were several other "fresh fish" in the group, and, following a breakfast of bacon and hardtack, we went though the motions of firing as a small company to ensure that we were all on the same page (from Casey's, in this instance). I must add that there was a remarkable emphasis placed on safety during my weekend with Company I, up to and including the use of a borelight.
Although drill isn't one of my favorite activities, I have to admit that most unit's seldom drill enough at reenactments. Following our initial drill and safety inspection, we broke camp and marched over to the camp of the 33rd Massachusetts. We joined them for a larger company drill (including skirmish drill) and then attended discussion of outpost tactics led by Tim O'Neill, commander of the 33rd.
The "School of the Campaigner" followed our drill and lecture. Don Hubbard (of Camp Chase Gazette fame) talked about the finer points of starting a campfire without the infamous boy scout water, and we soon applied his techniques (which I learned I had been using all along) to our own cooking fires, where we prepared meals of bacon and johnny cakes (supplemented with G.H. Bent hardtack).
We formed up for battle shortly before 1:30, and marched to the Union formation. Our impression was that of the 17th Michigan at Fox's Gap, while our foes represented Thomas Drayton's Brigade of South Carolinians. One of the more interesting aspects of this reenactment was its attempt to depict the proper time frame and distance in the battle scenarios. We deployed in the woods. The artillery roared in the distance, and we were issued orders to fire volleys through the trees.
Our rather unconventional order made sense if one considers the sense of drama a continuous, distant firing can bring to the audience. Nonetheless, several of us stopped firing after several volleys. We finally broke through the woods to push the beleaguered Confederate line back to the edge of the field. I've had mixed experiences with participants adhering to scenarios and taking hits, but the Confederates performed magnificently. I believe that they wanted us to wipe them out to a man . . . some even appeared upset when we ceased our attack.
A trek to a new campground and a meal of bacon and hardtack followed our battle. Bill asked if I would participate in a living history scenario that evening for the candlelight tour. As I had yet to portray anyone in first person, I agreed. I would play the role of a fatally wounded soldier, anxious to see his pregnant young wife one last time. Another "wounded" soldier would learn that he could indeed keep his foot. We had the belligerent brother in law and anxious attendant with us for the scenario. Although we waited some time for the tours, I believe that we managed to groan, writhe and "bleed" enough to move some of the people in the audience. Among our spectators were politicians, many of whom proved instrumental in saving portions of the South Mountain battlefield.
Before the living history began, Bill informed us that we would post pickets through the night. I should have been prepared for this, but exhaustion, bad memories of pickets firing through the night at Cedar Creek, and the thought of the four hour trip back to Pittsburgh made me a little less than receptive to the idea. Under normal circumstances (particularly if I had gotten a decent night's sleep on Friday, which is a rare thing at an event), the idea of a two hour picket post wouldn't bother me. However, we were expecting a 6 a.m. attack that morning, and something in my recent past made me voice some concerns about guard mount.
I tend to need very little sleep, but the trip home from Gettysburg had made me only too aware of my limitations. I vividly recall staying up until 2 in the morning, then waking up at 6 (on top of the 5 hours of sleep I got before I drove to the event on Saturday morning). What almost completely escapes my mind was the trip home . . . I remember very little of the three and a half hour drive, other than the (remarkably placid) thought that I would kill myself on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Needless to say, I made it home, but it was a sobering experience, one that I had no desire to repeat.
Bill Watson told me that he usually prepared for an event with picket duty by requesting a day off from work. Given the long hours and general lack of sleep involved, this is a wise precaution. Nevertheless, I argued against keeping people up all night, (a rational point), but I said some rather stupid things (I sometimes tend to get my dander up. I generally don't get whiny, but I do get surly, and say the dumbest things. I need to work on that).
In any case, it was a moot point. No sooner did I get up to clean the gore off my stomach than a strange, queasy feeling hit me. My head began to pound as well. I walked over to the fire, where guards were in the process of getting assigned to our outposts. Four left, several more stayed in camp, and I excused myself by asking my remaining comrades to wake me when it was my turn.
By now, I was completely nauseous. I sprawled on my poncho, while thoughts of bacon filled my head. Bacon dripping with grease . . . bacon, swooping through the air . . . bacon, transposed before a twisting, turning landscape. Somehow, I didn't vomit. In retrospect, I should have simply told Bill that I was sick, rather than illustrating the obvious. In any case, my worst fear was realized; the pickets began exchanging fire shortly after I went to bed, leading to s severe toungelashing of the rebs by one of our lads, who also used the long drive home as a means of chastising the overzealous skirmishers. Bill recalled our guards shortly afterwards, and I drifted off to sleep.
Sunday: I woke up to the sound of firing. Small groups of Confederates were encroaching on our position, but they didn't appear to have much information as to our size or true location. Within 13 minutes our camp disappeared completely, and we were on the move, gear safely stowed away on our backs. A few mainstreamers joined us in our ersatz "tactical," which turned out to be merely a small skirmish. Packs of Confederates would rush us, we'd volley, and they'd die. It was evident that the original plan had been thrown to the wind, and this was mainly a chance for the campaigners to have an ersatz meeting in the field. Even so, it was evident that this informal "tactical" had far more organization than the usual late afternoon skirmish.
We gathered back at our campground, and I told the others about my unpleasant experience the night before. They promptly informed me that I was probably sick from the grease of four consecutive bacon meals. A few of the Confederates from the Liberty Rifles joined us for a discussion, including Christopher Anders, the Confederate commander and one of the key organizers for this year's Fire on the Mountain reenactment. In yet another example of the remarkable generosity that seems to run through a number of the campaigner companies, Chris offered to share the Confederate bounty. Soupbone (who shares my tendency to get ill when hungry) and I (still a little leery of bacon after enduring visions of hogback swirling in my head) wandered through the labyrinth of trails into the Confederate campaigner area. Within short order we were provided with a country ham, bread, potatoes and cheese (I was told that cheese would counteract the effects of excessive bacon fat). Needless to say, we ate well that morning. Our bounty prompted Soupbone to comment that this was probably the first time Yanks ever went scrounging for food from the Rebs . . .
We spent most of the morning conversing by the fireside and frying up our ham. Conversation is always a pleasant activity at events, but I have noticed that discussions seldom revolve around the events, preservation or the Civil War in general. This was considerably different. We discussed proper equipment, preservation efforts and past events, and all the while I realized how special this weekend truly was.
Needless to say, few of us were hungry enough to eat lunch at the second day's "School of the Campaigner." We merely took advantage of the time to relax before today's scenario, the thrashing of Cobb's Legion.
Today's battle was among the most realistic I have ever witnessed. Vincent's Brigade moved forward, took heavy losses and then broke to the left. Our battalion moved forward into line, and promptly went to ground. We exchanged fire for some time before the Confederate line wavered and broke, with our forces close behind. At one point, the color guard took heavy losses, and I found myself next to the flag. We were at the forefront of the action as the forces in blue swarmed through a sunken road and forced the rebel line back to the campaigner area in the woods.
A lone Confederate horseman blocked our way. Several of the campaigners quickly pointed out the futility of the man's position, but he insisted on emptying a pistol into our ranks. As he went down (fortunately he was dismounted), his foot became tangled in the reigns, and the writhing mass of horse and rider provided a few frightening moments as the hapless hero tried to clear the road.
This year's Fire on the Mountain rates as one of the best events I have attended, and I must confess that my appetite for trying more campaign style events has been whet. Bill Watson and company provided quite an introduction to an entirely new reenacting experience, complete with a diploma (for the "Godawful Mess), bacon galore and powerful memories.
Mesopotamia Ohio, September 16-17
We arrived in the Amish country of northern Ohio shortly before 9 on Friday evening. Unfortunately, the rain clouds hovering in the distance presaged a wet evening. We had no idea just how wet the night would be.
The mainstream camps were set up in the town square, and readily accessible from the road. We quickly found some of our pards from the 40th, and set up as rapidly as possible. It would only stand to reason that South Mountain, the hottest event of the season, would be immediately followed by the coldest. Although several events were marked by intermittent rain, Friday night was wet beyond expectation. I finally rolled out of my dog tent at 5:30 on Saturday morning after spending a sleepless night marveling at how my humble abode's thin, untreated walls could keep the deluge out. The ground was spongy and saturated, ashes floated in fire pits, and long puddles appeared on the low ground.
A few intrepid souls sallied forth to participate in a truncated morning tactical, and the stirrings within camp increased in direct proportion to the slackening of the evening shower.
Saturday: Traci and I ventured into sutler's row. Following my experience at South Mountain, I found myself approaching the sutler's with far more trepidation. I purchased a forage cap at Dirty Billy's, and saw some high quality items at the Confederate Yankee; otherwise, it looked like more of the same . . .
Today's battle was preceded by a battalion level drill, with several new and intricate maneuvers. The battle itself was straightforward, with the outnumbered Confederates hiding behind a series of ersatz breastworks and the Federals mounting repeated frontal assaults. Our company was posted on the extreme left of the Federals line, and we took heavy losses in the field. I went down some distance away from the rebel line, but arose when I heard orders to "get up." I was convinced that the battle was over when I fell into line, but we surged forward en masse (with strict orders NOT to take hits) and hit the thin gray line in detail. I loped across the fence, and sympathized with some fallen Confederates, who were understandably confused by the Kevlar uniforms of their foes in blue.
The afternoon was still young when we marched back to camp, and Traci and I took full advantage to the opportunity to wander around the town. Mesopotamia is a lovely village, and the Greek Revival homes, 150 year old general store and open village green make an almost perfect setting for the event. We dined on some country ham, and went over to the bonfire behind one of the white churches beyond the square. A nervous Confederate seemed to realize that he was outnumbered by 30 to 1 in the crowd, but his humor kept we Yanks at bay.
Traci went to bed after a second swing through sutler's row, and I made my way back to the much diminished bonfire. A few locals remained around the blaze, and I struck up a conversation with a gentleman identified himself as one of the event's organizers. He told me that the event attracted 1200 participants in 1998, but the weather reduced participation to around 900 this year. We discussed the logistics of staging a mid sized event, the benefits of holding such an event (a sizable donation of money to the local historical society), and the pristine countryside surrounding Mesopotamia.
My friends often comment on my contempt for rampant development in the country, and our conversation merely fueled my disdain for those who insist on moving into an area with little regard for local mores. My gracious host related a story of yuppie arrogance that had my blood running hotter than the coals of the dwindling fire. It seems that the denizens of a housing development in a nearby town took offense at the byproducts of the Amish means of transportation. Rather than accepting the horse droppings as a minor nuisance, our intrepid suburban interlopers banded together and attempted to force the Amish to put diapers on their horses, less the manure offend the newcomers delicate sensibilities.
I've seen this sort of thing before; people move into the country without desiring the country experience. Such folks quickly try to ban hunting (noisy and inhumane), develop the land (we may not speak to our neighbors for 20 years, but it's nice to know that they're 20 feet away), and drag in shops, mini malls and "conveniences" ad nauseum (Horrors!!! The mall is 12 miles away!!!). The Amish make up 60 percent of the county's population, and they have been living quite comfortably with the residents of the area for many generations. Leave it to yuppie hubris to make a major issue out of something so trivial as digested grass, simply because they don't want to see that sort of thing. Needless to say, my companion and I resolved that if such people were so easily offended by such local color, they should simply stay in their safe, suburban slice of mediocrity rather than imposing their will on a pleasant system of relationships established generations ago.
Sunday: I bought some G.H. Bent hardtack at the Confederate Yankee, and fell in for battle. The Confederates were to win this scenario a la Fredericksburg. We advanced in good order, but one of my fellow soldiers suddenly developed a terminal case of trench mouth and began spouting obscenities in complete sentences. He was evidently dissatisfied with today's scenario. The display quickly ruined my experience, and I took a hit merely to remove myself from the blue cloud that hung over our company. When I arose from my selected place of death, I noticed that every one of the remaining members of the 40th went down within a few yards of my position. They too were fed up with the stream of obscenities. I never figured out what unit the man was from, but the scenario certainly didn't warrant such a display.
We didn't attend many of the activities, but the U.S. Sanitary Commission was handing out small packets of writing paper to soldiers, we heard the sounds of a very good string band floating through camp on Saturday night, and the activities tent featured a number of programs for the spectators. A number of school children had a chance to wander through the area on Friday.
The campaigner camp was nicely situated in some woods behind a farmhouse (provided the progressives didn't camp to close to the stream, which quickly overran its banks early on Saturday morning). Once we got past the rain on Saturday morning, the weather was cool but sunny, and the event organizers were probably encouraged to see a fairly substantial crowd on Sunday. The organizers seemed deeply concerned about our well being, and several other reenactors commented on their willingness to ask questions and seek ways of improving the event by consulting the participants. Certainly a welcome change from some of the top heavy, corporate events on the calendar.
Cedar Creek Virginia, October 21-22, 2000
I'll have more details on our wedding on a separate page. Suffice it to say that the weather was gorgeous, the setting at Belle Grove was beautiful, Joe Dobb's haunting fiddle lent to the mood, and Acoustic Shadows of the Blue and the Gray had everyone out on the floor at the reception. A year and a half of planning went into the wedding, and the result was a ceremony and reception that went off with nary a flaw.
Sunday: My best man has never been in a reenactment before. His mother coordinates volunteers at Genesee Country Museum, and John's helped out with crowd control at the museum's annual reenactment for years (I helped him at 5 of those excellent events), so he certainly has the exposure. However, few things could have prepared him for this.
I had no idea that something was in the wind we wandered into the Cedar Creek Battlefield Foundation to preregister two weeks before the wedding. One of the organizers told us that there would be about 3,000 reenactors at the event. With the exception of the 6-7,000 at last year's 135th anniversary, this seems to be the norm.
My parents, Traci and I wandered in to sutler's row on Thursday. I wanted to buy a good pair of brogans, and the kind people at the Cedar Creek Supply Depot obliged. As we ventured in to the Heirloom Emporium, we heard a rumor that the reenactment would be considerably larger than anticipated. By Friday, the estimated number of participants rose to 4,500. When John and I took to the field with the 40th and the rest of the USVs on Sunday, we heard there were over 5,000. With the exception of Wilson's Creek, this was probably the largest event of the season.
The USVs were posted on the Union right for the scenario. We marched down the hill to the small, muddy stream that runs through the battlefield. At one point, I looked to my left and saw a long, snaking double line of men in blue extending as far as I could see . . .
Although the battle scenarios no longer hold that much fascination for me, I have to admit the long lines of gray gradually emerging from the hillside across the stream raised my adrenaline. We fell back up the hill, and dozens of horsemen in gray clattered past the artillery posted on our extreme right flank. Any thoughts of being overwhelmed vanished when a mass of federal cavalry dashed out and drove the southern cavaliers back.
As we watched the saber and pistol duel through the smoke, a new line of Confederates bore down on the artillery. A few of us shouted warnings to our officers, but we were assured that they assault posed no threat. I looked behind me, and saw the Mifflin Guard emerge from behind the hill in a beautifully precise column of fours. The attackers were about to be outflanked.
Our reinforcements quickly assumed a battle front and began the massive counterattack. Thousands of bluecoats poured across the shallow creek bed and began the long trot up the hill, hurling the rebel crew before them. Several of the 40th went down, but John (grinning from ear to ear) and I (having sworn an oath not to die for once) rushed forward with the remaining line, which halted only at the cessation of the battle.
Cedar Creek ranks as one of the best events of the season. The Battlefield Foundation somehow manages to pull together one of the largest events of the season with remarkably meager resources, and the reenactors can rest assured that their registration money will go directly to maintaining and preserving battlefield land. I heard that last year's event brought the Foundation $60,000.
One of the season's most memorable sights is John's look of awe, fear and joy as the battle unfurled around him. After so many battle scenarios, its often easy to lose interest in another powder burning festival, but every once in a while, a battle can still instill that heady combination of tension, fear and wonder that initially draws one into the hobby. I foresee more of an emphasis on living history in the next season, but Cedar Creek can still elicit the same emotions I felt when I participated in my first reenactment in 1984.
