by Seneca Fox
Chapter V
1:20 pm
Soon after we set camp, people began to gather on a low plateau next to the battlefield. Max and I walked toward the sutlers’ village, bought a couple of soft drinks, and headed for the spectators’ area. The viewing area was ideal, positioned high enough to look down on the entire battlefield, yet not so high or far away that we would miss any details of the battle.
The first sign of action came when a Union reenactor mounted on horseback trotted to a high plateau behind the Union camp. Another reenactor pulled out a field telescope and looked toward the Confederates. A bugle sounded on the Union side, and reenactors gathered into five separate lines at the border of their camp. The Union colors were displayed at one end of the front line.
Reenactors stirred within the Confederate camp. A group of thirty or so Rebels crouched down and ran, with muskets in hand, along the far edge of the battlefield toward an outcropping of rocks and bushes. Some of them took position behind the rocks, others either lay on the ground or hid under the scattered brush, while the rest gathered in three lines in front of the camp. When the lines of the two opposing forces were in place, field officers began barking orders to their men. It was impossible to make out what the officers were saying, but it was apparent that they were imploring their men toward battle. The roll of drums started and reenactors marched forward. The front lines, perhaps forty men or more, from each army stepped in unison onto the battlefield. When these men had marched twenty or so paces, the second line followed and the maneuver was repeated until each line of men was marching.
Max tapped on my arm and pointed toward the battlefield. “Over there,” he said. Sitting tall on a horse that was positioned well behind the lines of Confederate reenactors was the blond officer Max and I had seen when we first arrived. The red sash alone was enough to get the attention of onlookers, but the way he sat – with his sword in his right hand and holding his head high as if sneering at the crowd – made him stand out.
Looking again toward the Union side, I saw a group of black reenactors marching together along the front line. One of them carried the Union flag. The others marched with their rifles propped against their shoulders.
The crowd of spectators, many dressed in period clothing, buzzed with anticipation. Most of them stood with their hands shading their eyes from the bright daylight, perhaps looking at a father or son. Others watched through binoculars. Some were standing in small groups talking among themselves as they watched the reenactors slowly close in on each other.
“Looks real, doesn’t it?” Max said to me.
“Too real.”
The reenactors steadily moved forward as the sound of the drum matched the rhythm of their march. Closer and closer they came, until finally a man dressed as a Confederate field officer commanded his troops to halt. A Union officer followed with a similar command. The opposing armies stood with their front-line troops situated little more than fifty yards apart, separated by the rubble of the old stone wall that offered no advantage to either. Following more commands from the officers, the reenactors on the front lines kneeled and set their rifles against their shoulders, aiming the barrels at the opposition. I stood there amazed at the insanity of it all. How could a man take position, in an open field, only a few yards away from an opposing army? No wonder so many died, I thought.
KABOOM, KABOOM, KABOOM!
Max and I jumped at the sound. A collective gasp came from the spectators and seconds later a first explosion occurred across the field near the rock outcroppings where the Confederate sharpshooters had taken position. Almost instantly there was a second explosion, then a third, each closer to the rocks than the one before. A single reenactor shrieked and flung himself to the ground.
“Fire!”
I wasn’t sure where the command came from, but instantly reenactors from both sides fired. As scores of guns crackled simultaneously, smoke lifted into the air. A few men on the front lines fell while those in the second rows aimed their rifles and muskets. Another command was given and the reenactors fired again – a few more men fell. After a volley from the third row, a small group of Confederates positioned in front of the black reenactors jumped to their feet, held out their muskets and ran forward. I was relieved to see that they did not have bayonets. As the Rebel reenactors charged, their Union counterparts fired repeatedly, feverishly working the levers on their rifles, one man fell as though shot, but he quickly jumped up and resumed his charge. When the small band of Rebels reached the black troops, they were swinging and poking their muskets. A moment later, the Rebels, two of the black Union reenactors and a few others dropped their weapons and began to engage in hand-to-hand combat.
Elsewhere on the battlefield gunfire continued, accompanied by occasional casualties and a slowly spreading cloud of blue smoke. The air was thick with the smell of burnt cordite. Cannon fire, at times, overpowered the scene and shook the ground while flag bearers held their colors high. In the heat of the battle, officers rode back and forth behind the lines shouting at their troops. The most noticeable was the sneering Confederate officer who wielded his glinting sword above his head. When his horse reared slightly, the scene looked like something from an overly dramatic painting.
Looking again at the black Yankees and their Rebel counterparts engaged in hand-to-hand combat, I wondered if the two groups of men were really fighting. They were punching and wrestling and throwing each other about, but as they continued it became obvious that no one was getting hurt. Each time a man was knocked down or thrown to the ground he would jump up again and reengage his opponent. At times it seemed that they might even be laughing.
“That’s the hand-to-hand combat guys – the Virginia 1202nd,” a young boy shouted.
In response to the boy’s remark, Max and I looked blankly at each other, but we were too fascinated by the battle to speak. At times, the fighting seemed realistic, but it also seemed that there were fewer casualties than one would expect with soldiers fighting so close to each other.
The battle progressed without either side appearing to gain an advantage. We watched cannon fire break apart the back line of reenactors from each of the armies. There were several charges from the Union army, several more distinct volleys of rifle fire scattered amid the seeming chaos, and more hand-to-hand combat on the edge of the battlefield.
Suddenly, in a surprise maneuver, the remaining lines of Confederate reenactors, the sharpshooters from the far side of the battlefield and a small number of cavalry from the Confederate camp simultaneously closed in on the Union army. Union soldiers began to break ranks and retreat to their camp. Men dressed in Confederate uniforms pursued relentlessly, all the while shouting and screaming with rage – the Rebel Yell. When a Union officer grabbed his army’s battle flag and waved it toward his camp the remaining reenactors joined the retreat. At first a few Confederates pursued, but they stopped and returned to their ranks when a field officer repeatedly fired his pistol in the air. The commander of the Confederate troops mercilessly kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse and rode forward toward his men. He shouted, but I could not hear his words.
After a few stray shots the fighting stopped. Almost immediately a deployment of Confederate reenactors returned to the field under a white flag to gather their casualties. Max and I counted six dead and eight wounded Rebels – some wearing clothes partially saturated with fake blood. When the Confederates left the field, the Union reenactors came out for their own post-battle collection of casualties. We counted ten dead and eight wounded Union reenactors.
“Looks like the Rebs got the best of that one,” said Max.
“How about that charge?”
“Pretty realistic, but there weren’t enough guys dying.”
“That’s what I thought.”
The spectators around us began to leave the hill and Max asked, “You suppose that’s it?”
“I guess so.”
“What do we do now?”<
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I shrugged. We turned and started walking back toward the wooded area where our tents were set up. The images of what I had just seen were fresh in my mind. Evidently, Max was having a similar experience; “I can’t get over that charge,” he said.
“Did you see those guys fighting hand to hand?”
“Yeah,” replied Max. “And the cannon fire and the explosions. It’s amazing how good they time everything.”
“It scared me the first time they fired the cannons. Boom, boom, boom and then three explosions afterward, in perfect sequence. Awesome, simply awesome. At first it was hard to believe that no one was dying out there.”
“That charge at the end,” Max repeated.
Like a couple of tall-tale savvy kids, we went on and on, all the way back to our campsite, repeating the details of what we’d just seen. With each retelling, our description became slightly more exaggerated, slightly more satisfying, until we had fixed mental images that matched our emotions. We both understood that our particular version of what we had just seen would be retold to thru-hiking, strangers sitting around distant campfires. We would have been richly satisfied had our detour ended there.