“You know that’s not good for you, honey,” said her mother.
“I’ll put lots of milk, Mom. C’mon, we’ve got a long day of Civil War studies ahead of us.”
“Okay,” she relented, pouring out half a mug. “Oh, boys, Mike said to remind you to pack up all your stuff for the next two days and he’ll bring it to the campsite this evening. I have a heavy duty Hefty bag for each of you.”
“We’d better savor this meal, T.J.,” cracked Bortnicker, setting platters of eggs, bacon and toast on the table. “God knows what we’ll be eating ‘round the campfire the next two days.”
“He’s right,” said LouAnne. “Don’t expect anything good in a reenactment camp. Dad says the coffee could take the paint off cars and the meat, if there is any, never gets cooked all the way.”
“I think I’ll stick with beans,” said Bortnicker.
“Easy, there,” joked T.J grimly, “I have to sleep with you in one of those tiny dog tents!”
“Well, there’s always hardtack,” suggested LouAnne.
“What’s that?” said T.J.
“An extremely hard biscuit that you’ll have to dunk or it’ll break your teeth,” said Bortnicker. “During the Civil War the hardtack the soldiers ate was usually infested with weevils.”
“I’ll try to sneak you in some granola bars on Saturday,” offered LouAnne. “It’s the least I can do for my brave boys in blue.”
“How kind,” said T.J. sarcastically.
After breakfast the boys went upstairs to pack, dragging their empty Hefty bags behind them. In went their leather backpacks embossed with the US logo, their shoes, kepi-style hats, white muslin shirts, woolen socks, pants, belts and jackets.
“I’m done,” said Bortnicker. “Can I get in the shower first?”
“Yeah, go ahead,” said T.J. “I’ve still got a ways to go.” He waited until his friend entered the bathroom, then slipped down the stairs and out the back door to the garage. In Uncle Mike’s work table area he found the oblong wooden box in which Mike stored his Civil War weapons. T.J. removed the Sharps rifle, which lay on top wrapped in oilcloth, and pulled up the leather covered box that housed the .44. He gently lifted it out, wrapped it in a small towel, and replaced the empty box and the rifle. Then, he crept back up to his room and packed the wrapped revolver in his knapsack, along with the powder cartridges and antique .44 bullets he’d purchased. He was just cinching the plastic bag when Bortnicker reentered the room, his scraggly hair still damp.
“Jeez, what’re you putting in there? All you need is your uniform stuff. They’re probably gonna search us for modern contraband, anyway.”
“Just double-checking I have everything. We’ll just set the drum kit and sticks near our bags in the living room and Uncle Mike’ll have no problem loading it in the truck,” T.J. said coolly. “I’ll take my shower and then Aunt Terri can drive us the Civil War camp.”
“Well, enjoy it,” said Bortnicker. “That’s the last shower you’re gonna have till Sunday night. We’ll be wearing the same stuff for two days! Ugh!”
They piled into Terri’s Accord and made their way down Buford Avenue toward the town center, which featured some early hotels, including the one President Lincoln had stayed at during his visit to dedicate the cemetery, restaurants, and of course shops.
They were almost to the roundabout circle that was fed by some of the roads leading in and out of town when Terri said, “Now, boys, I want you to get ready, because what you’re going to see will amaze you. We’ve all tried to impress upon you just how big these Reenactment Days are here, but you have to see it to believe it. Well, here we go.”
Immediately the car ground to a halt as they came upon the square which was clogged with every conceivable type of vehicle; compact cars, minivans, pickups pulling U-Hauls, Trailways-style tour buses, tractor trailers, even some evil-looking Harley choppers.
“I take it they’re going where we’re going?” said Bortnicker.
“Unfortunately,” said Terri. “The ride to the farm where the reenactment’s being held this year is usually a five minute drive. This is going to take us a good half-hour at the least.”
“It’s always like this?” marveled T.J. as they paused to allow a couple in full Civil War era garb cross the street.
“Yup,” said LouAnne. And guys, this is an off year, the 147th anniversary of the battle. In three years is the 150th, and the feeling is it’ll break all records. Heck, the Reenactment Committee’s probably already planning it.”
They finally pulled into the farm entrance and were just inside when Terri said, “Okay, here’s where you guys get out. LouAnne, I’ll be back around six to pick you up. Your dad should be here by then. Enjoy.”
Bortnicker was literally shaking with excitement. “Now I’ve seen everything!” he crowed. “It’s Civil War nirvana!”
Indeed, everywhere the teens looked they were inundated with history. A midway of tents had been established with every conceivable type of Civil War era food item for sale—old fashioned kettle corn and candies, beef jerky, hardtack, muffins and cakes, lemonade and sweet tea and sarsaparilla if you were thirsty. Then there were dry goods merchants, or sutlers, all in period garb, selling hats, shirts, shoes, copper pots and pans, souvenirs like those in town, books that included Carlton Elway’s, maps and other ephemera. Mixed in were demonstration tents where blacksmiths, musicians and artists labored. The sound of Civil War tunes like “Cumberland Gap” and “The Bonny Blue Flag” filled the air and added to the cacophony of the thousands of attendees. You could even get your palm read or your portrait taken with an antique camera that would make the image look exactly like the daguerreotypes of the 1860s.
“I say we get our picture snapped tomorrow when we’re all dressed up,” suggested LouAnne.
“Great idea!” said Bortnicker. “I can’t wait to show everyone back at school!”
T.J. just offered a weak smile. All around them, mixed in with the modern day tourists, soldiers and belles walked arm in arm, the men looking very authentic. T.J. was starting to question whether they were in over their head with this reenacting thing. It was true that his uncle said they could handle it, but T.J. wondered if that was just Mike reverting to his football pep talk days.
In addition to all of the buying and selling, there were genuine scholarly demonstrations and seminars going on in designated tents. One could drop in and learn about Civil War medicine, complete with a display of surgeon’s amputation tools, the role of spies in the war, “talks” with actors portraying Robert E. Lee and other key leaders, brass band concerts, even a complete Civil War wedding.
These would go on each day, and postings of the events with their times were everywhere. A prefab command post building sat on the edge of the village, white and blue Gettysburg police cruisers parked outside, along with ambulances. Numerous volunteers with blue “Gettysburg Reenactment Committee” golf shirts wandered about, speaking into walkie-talkies.
The teens stopped for a time to witness a live mortar firing demonstration, which was pretty cool, and the close-order drill of a small company of Union reenactors from New Jersey.
“So, what do you think, Cuz?” said LouAnne, munching on some kettle corn.
“It’s kinda overwhelming,” said T.J.
“Yeah, and just think. They’re all here to see you guys do your thing. Speaking of which, today’s reenactment starts in about an hour. I suggest we get a good seat in the grandstand, if there are any left. Come on!”
They crossed an open field to where huge sections of bleachers had been erected. To the sides were barrier ropes that stretched for hundreds of yards behind which people with lawn chairs or standees could also view the battle. “Are you serious?” said T.J., scanning the almost full bleachers. “How many spectators are they expecting?”
“Anywhere from 20,000 to 40,000, given the day,” said LouAnne nonchalantly as she scoured the stands for a small opening. “Of course, Pickett’s Charge on Sunday will b
ring out the most people. Today’s just a warm-up.”
They wedged themselves in between two Midwestern families and got comfortable. “Hey, don’t you have to pay to get in here?” asked T.J.
“We’ve got connections,” said LouAnne with a wave of her hand. “Half the Committee is in Mom’s church group here in town. They meet year-round to plan this thing and Mom, being Mom, is always dropping off muffins and cakes for them to munch on.”
Bortnicker was smiling broadly. “Just think, T.J.,” he beamed, “Tomorrow and Sunday it’ll be us out there! I’m so psyched I can’t stand it!”
The “Battle at the Brickyard” itself began with a PA announcer giving the vast crowd a quick overview of the upcoming action, including the participating units. The 72nd Pennsylvania would not be among them, although Mike had said that some early birds from the regiment would simply hook on to other units.
If this reenactment was only a warm-up, then it staggered T.J.’s mind as to what Pickett’s Charge on Sunday would entail. Regiments from both sides marched to their designated positions, drummer boys and fifers leading the way beside the regimental color bearers. When all was ready a few cannon from both sides were discharged, drawing oohs and ahs from the throng. Then officers on horseback maneuvered their companies into place and the shooting began. Almost immediately the field was covered with a smoky haze. Here and there a soldier dropped to the ground, either “killed” or “wounded.” The drummers, whom T.J. was keying on, kept up a steady tattoo during the proceedings as the action ebbed and flowed. Obviously those in command of the event had completely choreographed the battle according to actual field reports from July 1, 1863. Uncle Mike was right. If you just used a little imagination, you would swear this was all real.
As if reading his mind, Bortnicker yelled over the din, “You know, I expected this to be a little hokey. But this is really accurate! You can see that they’re just firing caps, but most of the guys are going through the whole loading motion with their rifles. And can you believe how loud those cannons are?”
“Remember, guys,” broke in LouAnne, “This is only about half of what’s gonna be out there Sunday. I’m not kidding!”
The battle ended in just under an hour, with the Union troops ultimately falling back to higher ground as the Rebels won the day. The crowd, which T.J. guesstimated at around 15,000, applauded wildly as the military units of both sides reformed and marched off to their respective camps, the dead and wounded having dusted themselves off to rejoin their comrades. With drums and fifes playing and colors flying, they exited the field, bringing an end to the day’s festivities.
“So, what do you think, Cuz?” said LouAnne, arching an eyebrow. “Are you ready to go to war?”
“Yeah, I guess,” T.J. managed, not sure if he was ready at all.
“Let’s follow the crowd toward the exit,” she said, stretching after a long time sitting on the hard aluminum bleacher seat. “Mom should be there waiting for me.” The teens wove their way through the huge spectator parking lot which was slowly, painfully emptying, with staff volunteers and Gettysburg police directing the traffic as it crawled out of the entrance. Now T.J. understood what Aunt Terri had said about every hotel within twenty miles being booked for the weekend. Not to mention the campgrounds and RV parks.
They saw Terri waving from a spot just outside the entrance and jogged over. “Have fun?” she asked as LouAnne slid in the passenger seat.
“It was a blast!” sang Bortnicker. “And it’s gonna get better tomorrow!”
“Well, just don’t screw up,” said LouAnne sweetly.
“My husband’s right behind me,” said Terri. “Please don’t let him or his army buddies corrupt you.”
“We won’t, Aunt Terri,” said T.J., secretly wishing he could climb in beside LouAnne and get out of here. Why was he having such negative thoughts?
Terri’s Accord pulled away into the traffic flow and was replaced seconds later by Uncle Mike’s truck, its bed loaded with their equipment for the weekend. He was grinning broadly and obviously excited. “Jump in, guys!” he cried. “We’ve got to get us registered.” He followed a gravel path away from the spectator parking lot to another prefab building on the village perimeter.
Inside was a beehive of activity. Long tables were everywhere, arranged in alphabetical order. The Union reenactors had one side, the Confederates the other. In the center of the room were huge bulletin boards with regimental postings.
“That’s for guys who don’t have a unit, or whose units are very small,” said Mike. “The committee just hooks them up with another regiment for the weekend. We won’t have that problem. The 72nd Pennsylvania should be rolling in as we speak.” He led them to their respective tables where a photo ID was issued. They also had to sign a waiver, which Mike also signed as their guardian because they were underage, that absolved the event committee of any accidents that might happen to them while on the grounds. T.J. couldn’t believe all the paperwork involved. “How many reenactors are gonna be here, Uncle Mike?” he asked as he signed the waiver form.
“I’m hearing anywhere from 2,000 to 2,500 by Sunday,” he said. “That’s not including horses.”
After that was taken care of they rode in the truck to the reenactors’ parking field, where T.J. was once again awed by the scope of the event. Many units had rented their own tour buses. Some artillery units even had tractor trailers with their regimental logos painted on the sides. There were horse trailers by the hundreds as well.
“Where do they keep the horses?” asked Bortnicker.
“There’s a special corral for each army,” said Mike. They branched off down yet another gravel road, topped a rise, and were treated to the sight of two very large camps of white tents, separated by an area of woods a quarter mile wide.
“Holy crow!” said Bortnicker. “Who put all these tents up?”
“The reenactors,” said Mike. “Remember, we’re getting to the party a little late. Some of these guys have been here over twenty-four hours already. Let’s find the 72nd Pennsylvania.” They crawled along until Mike spied the familiar faces of Matty, Bobby and Eddie, fully dressed and stacking their muskets pyramid style in front of a group of tents.
“Well, if it isn’t Ranger Mike!” cried Matty, bear-hugging his friend. “And are these our two drummer boys?”
“Yup,” said Mike. “New recruits. You guys already know my nephew T.J. This is his buddy, Bortnicker.”
“Glad to have you join our unit,” said Matty with a courtly bow. “Let’s give you a hand unpacking your gear.” They easily hefted the big plastic bags as Mike carefully handed down the drums and accessories from the truck bed.
“Let me go park the truck,” said Mike as he slammed the tailgate shut. “Matty, you guys show the boys their tent. I assume I’m bunking with you?”
“Only the best for you, Ranger Mike,” said Matty. “Actually, the three of us did Rock-Paper-Scissors and I lost.”
“Very funny,” said Mike, climbing behind the wheel. “Be back in a few.”
As he crunched away over the gravel, Matty said, “Okay, boys, ready to see your shebang?”
“She-what?” said Bortnicker.
“Shebang,” said Matty patiently. “Like in the phrase ‘The whole shebang’? What would happen is, two soldiers would be issued one-half of a tent apiece. Instead of it being set up like your typical A-frame ‘dog tent’ as they called it, they would take two long sticks and prop up one side like a flap. This would give them more room, especially on hot days like this where there was little chance of rain.
“Colonel Pelham decided it would be okay for you to borrow his sons’ tent, so we’ve set it up shebang style, at least until tonight. You can peg it down later for some privacy.
“Now, T.J., I talked to your uncle and he said you guys have picked up the basic uniform and a knapsack. We’ve also supplied you with a rubber ground cover and blankets, as well as mess kits and canteens, which will be the most important pi
ece of equipment you carry this weekend. Whenever you get a chance, keep filling it with water. Dehydration in weather like this is our biggest problem.”
By this time Darcy had returned and was talking to Bobby and Eddie, exchanging pleasantries. “Mike tells me you boys have been practicing hard the last few days,” said Matty. “Being a drummer boy isn’t the hardest thing in the world, but that don’t mean you can’t screw it up. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”
“Matty,” said Mike, “if you’re done harassing the boys, I think it’s time the three of us suit up. Then I’ll take them to meet the boss.” The teens removed their knapsacks from the Hefty bags and put them in the shebang alongside their drum kits, slung the Hefty bags over their shoulders, and trudged off with Mike to the long line of porta-sans that bordered the campsite. At the sight of Bortnicker wrinkling his nose Mike said, “Just be thankful we’re not going one hundred percent authentic on the bathroom facilities, or you’d be going potty in a slit trench.”
“Gotcha,” said T.J. appreciatively.
They emerged minutes later, totally transformed to 1860s Union soldiers. Bortnicker had even managed to pick up a generic pair of “granny style” reading glasses that looked infinitely more authentic than his tortoise shell model, though the clarity was nowhere as sharp.
“Well?” T.J. asked his uncle, who was lacing on his brogans.
“Fantastic! Nobody would accuse you two of being farbs, that’s for sure.”
“What’s a farb?” said Bortnicker.
“Someone who cuts corners on their clothes or equipment, usually for reasons of comfort,” said Mike. “It’s the ultimate put-down for reenactors. You don’t want to be caught with modern shoes or cell phones or whatever, unless it’s in the privacy of your tent. But even then, guys who go for cutting corners are missing the point of the whole experience. Speaking of which, I’m going to take you to meet Jack Pelham, Colonel Pelham to you. He’s a pretty good guy away from all this, but when it comes to reenacting he’s deadly serious. So, Bortnicker, no smart-alecky stuff, okay?”
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