by Seneca Fox
Chapter III
11:25 am
Max and I stood at the back of the truck and gazed at the men dressed in Confederate uniforms as they passed. One of them was wearing what I assumed was an officer’s uniform. At first glance, I noticed a glossy red sash that was wrapped around his waist; then I admired the quality of the heavy looking, broad-brimmed hat – it had a gold tassel and was tilted on his head. A sword cut back and forth at his side. His trim mustache was slightly darker than his blond hair. He immediately impressed me as a person of authority, but the favorable impression disappeared when he glared back at us, placed his thumb and index finger on the brim of his hat and smirked before he said, “Gentlemen.” Another reenactor acknowledged our presence with a curt nod. The smirking officer said to the others, “Did you get a whiff of that?”
“Yeah,” replied one of the others.
“Come on,” said the officer. “My boy’s probably having a fit.”
Something didn’t seem quite right about a couple of the men. Their uniforms looked old and worn, and as they walked by I noticed that they were very thin, almost gaunt.
Max and I stood there in our hiking gear with our pant cuffs tucked in our boots, full backpacks topping out above our heads and our bodies reeking with the essence of sweat, campfire smoke and grime. We certainly weren’t dressed for the occasion.
“How about that look?” I asked.
“The officer?” inquired Max.
“Yeah.”
“He’s got a superiority complex. Comes with the stripes,” he added. “Superiority complex” was the term Max used to describe people who thought they were better than others.
Quickly dismissing our first encounter with reenactors, Max and I walked toward the open area ahead of us. We soon saw a gently sloping field that stretched hundreds of yards, all the way to the base of a mountain to the west. My first thought was that this spot was mercifully left behind, like an inverted peninsula, many centuries ago when the angry earth’s core pushed up sharp mountain tops that had since been worn down by relentless years of wind and rain. Looking again, I saw that patches of trees and shrubs covered a fair amount of the area before us. There was a clear view from one end of the battlefield to the other and the camps of the opposing armies stood at either end. I guessed that there were thirty to forty open acres between them.
Some of the more permanent fixtures in the field included a few small groves of trees, a lone gigantic oak with branches hanging only inches above ground, several locust trees, scattered limestone outcroppings and the remnants of a stone wall that stretched across the width of the field. I’m not sure what it was, perhaps the branches of the old trees hanging over the sodden ground or the way the stone wall looked sunken into the earth, but there was something haunting about the battlefield. I shuddered when I realized that men may have died here, writhing in pain before some merciful spirit released their souls from the shattered bodies. I shuddered again when I thought that some of those souls might still be haunting this soil. Looking at the many people wandering about, I speculated that, like me, few of them understood what it meant to die on a battlefield.
The Confederate encampment was immediately in front of us; the Union encampment was partially visible on the hillside at the far end of the field. Between the two camps, in the middle of the battlefield, were the remains of the morning engagement including, to my surprise, some fallen reenactors that were waiting to be carted off on litters.
Men dressed in Confederate uniforms scurried about while others, sitting among a circle of white canvas tents, were cooking over campfires. A larger tent was positioned toward the edge of the field. The peak of its pointed roof was five feet taller than the guard standing outside. It was apparent to me that this large tent was the headquarters – I wondered who might be inside. Several horses were tied to a fence that located between the large tent and the steep slope of a nearby hill – a blacksmith was shoeing one of the horses. Orderly tripods of muskets with bayonets and a variety of other artifacts were spread out within the camp. Three cannons were positioned between fifty and a hundred yards away. Some of the Confederate reenactors wore jackets with stripes, hats and sashes, and sometimes a pistol or a knife was hanging by their side. I was again surprised to see that a few of them were gaunt and wore uniforms that looked old and worn. It almost appeared that the organizers had recruited them from a soup kitchen. A Confederate flag was vigorously flapping in the breeze at the center of the camp, inside the circle of tents.
Other participants wore civilian clothes with the addition of a soldier’s jacket or hat; a few wore clothes that looked more appropriate for farming; even fewer wore formal civilian attire of the Civil War period. There were also women dressed in period clothing. They looked hot in the many layers that were often adorned with a shawl and bonnet.
Surprisingly, there were also boys and girls dressed in mid-nineteenth century clothes. One little boy with tangled golden locks dangling beneath his cap and a drum attached to a strap around his neck was marching along the back of the Confederate camp attempting to beat the drum in rhythm with his steps. The asynchronous movement between his feet and his hands were forced and unnatural. The determined look on his face made me laugh – I wanted to walk over and help him find the beat. Only yards away, leaning against a fence, were two men watching the boy. I recognized one as the officer Max and I had seen with his entourage when we first arrived at the reenactment. He was holding his hand to his head, shaking it back and forth, as if he were embarrassed by what he was watching. It seemed obvious to me that the boy was his son.
Far across the field was a scattering of blue uniforms. Most of the Union reenactors appeared to be wearing light blue trousers and dark blue jackets.
I was not surprised to see a variety of vendors in a village of their own some distance away. I later learned that these vendors were referred to as sutlers. Beyond the sutlers’ village I could see modern tents, campers and RVs parked beneath the trees. In the absence of the campers, RVs, a makeshift parking lot, and spectators, the scene might well have been set in the Civil War period.
Looking back at the Confederate camp, I noticed that Max and I did fit in, in one way. Over half the reenactors had beards. I had never seen a greater assortment. There were goatees, long narrow beards, some sideburns and well-waxed handlebar mustaches. Max and I had ordinary three-month-old beards that were devoid of any special grooming. A few reenactors were wearing similar beards.
“Hungry?” I asked Max.
“Yeah.”
“I’d like some of what’s cooking over there.” I pointed to a whole pig roasting over an open fire on the edge of the Confederate camp. Assuming that we would not likely get any, we headed for the sutlers’ village. On the way we passed under the grove of tall trees where we took off our packs and set them against a tree trunk. I opened my pack and took out my wallet and we went looking for a couple of hot dogs and drinks.
“What do you think of all this?” I asked.
“Kind of weird,” said Max.
“Weird?”
“Yes.”
I was too excited to give Max’s comment serious consideration. “A lot of people. How do you suppose they decide whether they should be Rebels or Yankees?”
In a surprisingly authoritative tone, Max replied, “It depends on a number of things.”
“Like what?”
“Some decide based on where they grew up or on family history, others on personal philosophy. For some it’s just a hobby and they don’t care much about what side they’re on – one time a Rebel, the next a Yankee.”
“How do you know?”
“I gotta couple of friends at home that do this,” replied Max.
“You suppose they’re here?”
“No. They only go to Gettysburg or New Market. Costs a lot of money.”
“How much?” I asked.
“I’m not sure, but it requires more than just buying a uniform. There’s rifles
, knives, tents, accessories, fees, traveling – you name it. It’s like anything – to do it right you have to be willing to pay for it.”
An expensive hobby, I thought. Then I said to Max, “Judging by the fences, I presume we’re not welcome in the camps?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe they let non-reenactors in at certain times.”
“So you think we can walk though later?”
Max shrugged his shoulders.
I looked around at the different sutlers’ tents. One was selling period clothes and gear, another displayed a variety of flags and a banner on which the words “Finest flags of the Confederacy” were written, and there was a tent with books and pamphlets stacked up on tables. I tapped Max on the shoulder. “I’m going over there.”
We walked over and an older woman, perhaps in her sixties, approached us. As she got close, she pulled her head back slightly and raised her eyebrows. The reaction to our stench was typical and Max and I were not offended. I chuckled and apologized; then I explained that we were hiking the Appalachian Trail and that we heard cannon fire from the ridge. “We, or really, I was curious.”
“I see,” she replied. “Well, since you’ve gone to all the trouble to come, perhaps I can give you a little history.” She smiled.
“That’d be great,” I said.
“Good,” she said. “This is the reenactment of the Battle of Clear Creek.”
I looked around and didn’t see any creek. But I didn’t interrupt.
“In early 1865, the Union army was wrapping up a successful campaign over the mountain in the Shenandoah Valley. A battalion of Union soldiers was sent from that campaign to assist Grant in his pursuit of Lee. The battalion came across that gap in the mountain.” She pointed to a low spot in the ridge where I could see one mountain in the foreground and a second one farther back. I sensed a sizable gap between the two.
“The Confederates had sentries posted all along the ridge, especially close to major towns and cities like Lynchburg and Roanoke. When the lookouts saw the Union Army approaching, they sent for help. Soldiers were sent from Lee’s army and they were joined by a handful of other locals. The aim was to ambush the Yanks before they got through the gap. But the Southern boys were a little late getting here. After a brief skirmish, which they reenacted this morning, a more fierce engagement followed. The battle lasted two days before the Yanks retreated. It was later found that Grant had sent word to the commanding officer of the Union forces to turn back. His message indicated that he had Lee’s army in full retreat and that surrender was imminent. A few days later,” she sighed, “Lee surrendered.”
“So this was one of the last battles of the Civil War,” I said.
“Yes, but it was actually fought in April.”
“So why not reenact it in April?”
“There are other reenactments at that time, so this one is in May.”
Max spoke up, “How many died here?”
“I think the official count was twenty-six or maybe twenty-eight, I can’t really remember, but it was a small number of fatalities relative to many other battles. This was, to the relief of many, the last battle for most of the soldiers who fought here.”
I tried for a moment to imagine what a soldier that understood that the war was nearly over thought about as he stood facing the enemy. Under those circumstances, I wondered, what was it that motivated a man to fight? Was it dedication to a cause, or fear of the consequences of refusing to fight? Did having other battle-hardened and weary soldiers make it easier or inescapable because each soldier believed that the others fought for honor and glory and failure to do the same was unforgivable? Returning my attention to the woman, I asked, “Forgive me, but weren’t there much larger battles that make for better reenactments?”
“Yes and no. The large battles take a lot of time and money to stage. The various organizations work hard to pull off reenactments like Gettysburg, Antietam and New Market. The organizers spend an entire year preparing for those events. But these smaller battles lend themselves to weekend commitments. The so called ‘hardcores’ sometimes like these battles better.”
“Hardcores?” I echoed.
“Some reenactors are more serious about authenticity than others. They insist on coming as close to replicating the conditions of the Civil War period as they can. They go to great lengths to ensure that uniforms, camps, the battles, the way they talk, what they talk about, you name it, are consistent with the period. Some even go so far as to nearly starve to death. In fact, since this was one of the last battles of the Civil War, there were many real soldiers, especially Southern soldiers, who did almost die of starvation.”
“So that explains the nearly emaciated reenactors we see walking around.” I said.
“Hardcores,” said the woman as she nodded her head.
I noticed customers milling around looking at books. To wrap up our conversation I asked, “So when do they start fighting again?”
She looked at her watch and said, “In about an hour.”
“Thanks Ms. – ” and I stuck out my hand.
The woman took my hand and said, “Thompson, Rose Thompson.”
“Thanks Ms. Thompson,” I said as Max smiled and nodded in appreciation.
She smiled and said, “You’re welcome.”
